


Diablerie

by Oceanbreeze7



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BAMF Tom Riddle, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Drug Addiction, Eating Disorders, Exorcisms, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mental Health Issues, Nazis, Orphanage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sane Tom Riddle, Time Travel, Tom Riddle has serious problems, Tom Riddle's Diary, World War II, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-08-27 06:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 108,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16697380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oceanbreeze7/pseuds/Oceanbreeze7
Summary: Moody reclined in his chair, his prosthetic scratched over the floor. “What year is it, Riddle.”It wasn’t phrased like a question, maybe that was why Tom finally answered.“September.” Tom clipped out coldly. “1942. You know this.”’Harry inhaled so sharply he choked on his spit. He hurriedly turned away, hacking and wheezing as he nearly asphyxiated on his own saliva.“Yeah,” Moody grimaced with a slight disgruntled noise hidden in his tone, “that’s a problem.”Tom Riddle, 15 years old, in the middle of the London Blitz suddenly finds himself in a future with no allies, resources, information, and everyone he knows treats him with enough restraint to not murder him on the spot. It takes a lot to truly ruin a human being, to rot them so thoroughly even fruit flies avoid the stench. Tom doesn't want this bullshit, Tom only wants to-'Please God, let me live.





	1. Carpe diem

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be added as the story goes on.  
> It will be dark and warped, hands down it's going to be brutal.  
> This is the first chapter, chapters will likely take me a while to write before I get the whole thing going smoothly. This story will have more adult content in it (nothing explicit), and mature themes.  
> I truly hope you all like this.
> 
> This story is dedicated to Ahuuda and Nel, who helped me with Tom to the point where I can ruin him so absolutely, you all will be broken in turn. Thank you both, for all the motivation and help and the tears of happiness you've given me.
> 
> Enjoy everyone, this will be a story most foul.

There are those, who would flay the skin from their flanks to grovel at the feet of divinity. There are those, who would cast off the shape of their container to bow before hellebore and mumble verses and words in cracked noises. Incense cloying, wax dripping to hiss and sear and burn _again...again._ There are those, who would chop the limbs that grounded them and let their spirit rise upwards into the grasp of the heavenly choir, leaving behind mutilated flesh carved by their own hand.

_Then I will punish their transgression with the rod And their iniquity with stripes; Psalm 89:32_

There are those who under worship saw duty instilled by other. There are those who took their love, and used it to justify hate. Under candlelight and broken stone, altars cracked by unseen strife. Water blessed by saint, given to those begging for a drink until drink turned to drunk and from there it burned like fire. Dripping, pouring, _again...again._

_But the next day he took the bed cloth and dipped it in water and spread it over his face, till he died. And Hazael became king in his place;2 Kings 8:15_

Flashes again, heat and humility and humble forced through his blood into spirit itself. There are things more important than our own pleasures, there are things more important than the suffering of the body.

Again, again, until the wordless coos were banished with the glint of polished metal. The scarlet light tinted from the window of the Virgin Mary. The thrashing and woeful throes of creatures made from hellfire.

_And these signs will accompany those who believe: in my name they will cast out demons; they will speak in new tongues;’Mark 16:17_

The sins of the impure will be baptized with blood and worship.

_Again...Again…_

There are those with faith to guide their hand and trust in actions predetermined.

There are those, who beg for less; and scream as heaven crashes down.

_“Please God, let me live.”_

There are those, who beg and cry over their salvation; where even the Lord turns their back in shame.

* * *

 

Number 12 Grimmauld Place was a dark, gloomy place. It was filled with a sort of presence hard to explain- it felt like a hundred eyes watched you no matter where you went. Although, that may have been the large wall of severed House Elves.

The stairs creaked, the walls smelled of mildew and peeling paper, even the furniture had strange teeth marks as if something had been gnawing on it for quite a while. It wasn’t pleasant under any circumstances, but it wasn’t the Dursley’s so with that logic, it was home.

Once you overlooked the large cases of potentially dangerous artifacts, the house had a sort of charm to it. It had memories from the small soot stains on the ceiling to the part of the carpet where dozens of feet had stamped it flat over decades. Harry wasn’t one to say any of this out loud, but he actually liked the house.

His godfather most certainly did not, and Harry was beginning to suspect them and had put several of the soot stains there himself.

They had been cleaning the house almost insanely so. Mrs. Weasley leaping at the couch cushions wielding a feather duster instead of a sword. She could have fit in one of the paintings where knights fought off dragons; except she used a mop to challenge a suspiciously large fur ball to a duel to the death. Harry was pretty sure the fur ball had never seen something as terrifying as that woman.

Only a few days into summer break and already Harry’s fingers felt numb and sore from scrubbing, he wasn’t sure he had ever smelled as lemony before in his life. His hair was messy, at one point he and Ginny tried to tie it back with countless hair clips but they too were consumed by the ravenous black mane. Sirius had laughed so hard at the sad attempt, he even let the disgruntled girl try to make stubby braids in his black hair.

Harry couldn’t argue that life was bad, but there were moments where he felt such overwhelming frustration he wanted to punch a wall. Moments while cleaning where he simply remembered the chaos of the Triwizard Tournament, moments where he felt the hot rotten breath of the Horntail snapping just behind his shoulder- only for him to spin around and see nothing but dust.

There were moments, when he glanced in a mirror and bright red eyes stared back at him. Moments where he swallowed water and he was _convinced_ that he was going to drown. Small moments, but moments nonetheless.

It was better now, now that he could stay up at night leaning against Padfoot on a couch, watching a fireplace flicker without the stress of impending grades. There were times where he could walk to the kitchen and grab an apple to eat, a novelty that was embarrassing and shameful to take pride in. Times, where he breathed in and although the air was stale and molded, he was so overwhelmingly happy he couldn’t _not_ smile.

He didn’t like to think about the graveyard. He didn’t like to think of the muted noise of someone hitting the ground. It sounded just like a dozen other times; when Dudley broke his glasses when he tripped him at the playground, when they learned Stunners for the first time and Hermione had been a little _too_ good at it, when Ron fell out of bed in the morning forgetting that his feet needed to support his weight, when Cedric’s lifeless body collapsed onto dew coated grass.

It all sounded the same, but it left his heart stuttering just a little too frantically. Like a pocket watch wound a little too tightly. Gears grinding together- pull too quick then watch it spin itself out.

Sometimes his hands would clench into tight fists, knuckles turning white. Sometimes he wanted to turn and punch and punch until his skin split and bled. He felt like he deserved it sometimes. He didn’t kill Cedric, but he may have well done it himself.

He would never forget it, not until he stopped breathing.

“Harry!” Someone startled him, causing Harry to jolt from where he had been dozing off. Hermione was looking at him inquisitively, a small hint of concern threatening to bubble over. He had been trying his best to disguise anything that may have been not normal. She hadn’t been that close to him during the School Year (something they had already discussed and put behind them) so any new habits of his weren’t yet familiar to her.

He forced his face into a small smile, forced but not obviously so. “Yeah 'Mione? Ready to go?”

Hermione tucked one loose strand of hair behind her ear, visibly uncomfortable. “Ah, yes. Ginny finished up in the library so we’re gathering in the parlor to portkey over.”

Harry nodded, already aware of the plan. There was going to be a large discussion here at the Order headquarters, one so large that the risk of exposing other members or nonmembers (much to the Twin’s frustration) was too dangerous. They were all being moved into the Weasley household for a couple days until all discussions were finished.

“Professor Moody is escorting us!” Hermione smiled weakly, unable to hide how much the man discomforted her. The large bulging eye and uncanny habits left much to be wanted, but he was intelligent company and not someone who treated Harry like a fragile child. Harry liked his company over a few choice members.

“Harry!” Mrs. Weasley waved at him dramatically, although there wasn't any way he could possible miss her. It was an endearing action, although one that continued to baffle Harry as time went on. “Over here! Do you have everything? Don’t leave anything behind! Ginny, Dear, did you get those spare pastries in the kitchen- Fred! George! Stop that!”

Harry sighed through his nose at the familiar ruckus, sliding into the group of Red hair that crowded around him like a friendly pile of Kneazles. They were all clutching one large nondescript umbrella with one hand, the other was being held by a scowling Alastor Moody.

“Good, all set?” Moody grumbled, bulging eye rolling around jerkily, “excellent, we’re making excellent time. Alright, hang on tight, _Willow.”_

They vanished, then landed. Harry promptly vomited on the grass.

“Get it together, Potter!” Moody howled playfully, swatting Harry’s hunched over back with the now ordinary umbrella. “Deep breaths! Get your feet under ya!”

Harry wheezed and tried to ignore the snot that was drooling from his nose with the bold intent of Hagrid’s hound. Moody grinned when he saw Harry summon his limitless amount of stubborn willpower. He straightened jerkily, and Moody laughed a barking raspy noise.

“There you go!” Moody sneered playfully, twirling the umbrella in one hand, “off now, reckon they’ll be waiting. Albus told me to keep an eye on you, seem you’re a magnet for trouble, eh?”

Harry didn’t quite know what to say in response, so he coughed sourly into one hand and rolled his shoulders.

“Make my life exciting, Potter.” Moody grinned, starting off with a shuffling gait towards the Burrow towering in the distance, “Albus warned me of that. Told me not to let you go stumbling off.”

“I wouldn’t go stumbling off looking for trouble if I _wanted_ to.” Harry snidely muttered, pausing before recovering with a quiet, “sir.”

Moody _cackled,_ looking more thrilled by the lack of professionalism. He smacked one of his large hands on Harry’s back, nearly sending him flying. “You’re a lively one! Good! Keep that spirit, it’ll keep you alive!”

Harry could imagine the large bruise forming on his back. He was going to get questions about that for sure.

“Tell ya what.” Moody’s face twisted into what may have been a smile, although the missing chunk of his nose made his entire expression seem garish. “I’m workin’ on a ritual. May be good experience to see some advanced magic in practice.”

Harry instantly perked up. “A ritual? Like the-.”

Harry thought of red eyes. His arm burned. He flinched.

Moody didn’t look like he pitied Harry, which was more than most people gave him. Harry already liked Moody a lot more because of that.

“You’ve seen a ritual already, boy.” Moody grunted sharply, “You manage to get out of bed before dawn I’ll show you some _real_ magic alright. Of course, only observational purposes.”

Harry couldn’t stop the wide breathless smile that spread across his face. “Of course, sir.”

Moody chuckled lowly, swatting him with the umbrella. “Cheeky brat! Get inside! Molly will be making a fuss if you keep your bird's nest of a head out here any more!”

Mrs. Weasley did make a racket, shushing him up the stairs to drop his bag off in Ron’s room where he’d be sharing it. He had tried to explain that he really was fine with a few blankets on the floor, but apparently the Weasley household couldn’t fathom ever a situation where that would be necessary. A bright cot was shoved in the corner, larger than the one Harry had grown up sleeping on under the stairs.

“Bloody sucks,” Ron grumbled under his breath, flopping on his own bed, “that we got kicked out for a stupid Order meeting. Why can’t we just stay in our rooms?”

Harry dug through his bag and pulled out a few of the supplies he had taken with him, particularly the snacks he had weaseled away with Sirius’ help. “Well, maybe they know Fred and George would try to sneak in.”

Ron made a small grumbling noise of agreement, fumbling on his side table for a specific magazine in the stack of Quidditch posts.

Harry occupied himself the best he could, trying not to think about what Sirius could be doing so far away.

Dinner was a wonderful home cooked meal, made with far too much fuss. Harry was perfectly content with whatever he was given, but apparently eating his meal without all the additives was somehow a crime. Ginny nearly launched herself across the table when Harry forgo the gravy and side sauces. Mrs. Weasley invaded his space herself, pouring so much gravy on his plate, Harry was sure his potato would start to float.

Feeling much more content and cozy, the house was filled with warmth and laughter. Stories and discussions about what had been going on in the world, speculation about the next year at Hogwarts even though the summer break just started. Fred and George talked to Harry in codewords that were so convoluted, Harry couldn’t figure out what on earth they meant when obviously discussing their funding for their prank shop. Maybe the idea of a Skivvering furball was some sort of cat? Or maybe they were literally talking about a fur ball.

Harry went to bed with a small alarm clock ready to jump out of his hand for dawn, with the reassurance that Ron could sleep through a tornado.

* * *

 

The rune circle was pretty and organic in a way the Graveyard wasn’t. An area of the field had been cleared out, a small circle surrounded by bright green sprouts that would one day turn into corn plants towering above their heads. Moody was fumbling around the edges, adjusting large mounds of turquoise stones that Harry had seen in some jewelry. He was sure Hermione had a necklace with one of the sky blue rocks.

“Potter!” Moody barked, pointing at one nondescript lump of what looked like coal, “go fetch me that rock!”

Harry hopped up from where he was sitting on the ground, grabbed the lump of coal, and handed it to the larger wizard. Moody didn’t even look up before he dropped the stone, smashing it under his heel until it was small fragments. Harry didn’t understand any of this.

He was sure he would do better in Divination than any of this weird rune creating business.

Moody finally felt satisfied with his odd little circle when he rotated a completely normal quaffle four times on a pedestal. It looked like a normal quaffle, so Harry really didn’t understand why he was so focused on it.

“Alright!” Moody almost roared, the sunrise peeking over the horizon now to chase away the dew, “stand back Potter! If I manage to do this right, we’ll have a great aid to our war!”

Harry jolted upright in interest, “we will? What are you making? A weapon?”

Moody barked out a laugh, “close! This ritual summons your signature from when its the most desperate! In almost all cases it summons you when you’re on your bloody deathbed but with war, I reckon I’d be most desperate only when we’ve somehow lost!”

Harry blinked a few times, unable to begin to understand.

“Normally this ritual is bloody useless,” Moody scoffed at the ground and the nice quaffle. Maybe he’d give it to Fred and George once they were done, they could use a new quaffle for sure. “But if I manage this right, my older self would be something that Dark Lord never expects! Hah! We’d have won!”

Harry didn’t want to argue that Moody wasn’t quite the sanest, so really a highly desperate Moody may not be the best idea.

“Okay, sir.” Harry shrugged unsure, sitting back on the dirt of obediently watch. “I’ll get help if you set yourself on fire.”

Moody sent him a stink eye although it was an affectionate one. He grinned a toothy grimace, then began to twirl and dance while shouting gibberish. No, it was a step up from that. It was gibberish, _with meaning._

Harry lowered his chin to rest in his palm, already expecting the man to be struck by lightning. He should have stayed in bed.

* * *

 

The ritual worked, but they had overlooked a few things.

They thought that Moody would be the most desperate between them, that through the trauma and battle’s he’d seen, any stage where he truly became desperate would surely be more powerful. The ritual locked onto the nearest signatures, scanning through the dimensions unbound by time for anything that fulfilled the requirement. Moody had a few instances of desperation, where anxiety and adrenaline peaked into a concoction of potential.

Harry hadn’t thought he was really that desperate in his lifetime. Maybe he had some trauma, maybe he had nightmares nightly. It couldn’t be at all able to fulfill the specifications.

A moment, of utter despair and utmost desperation. A level of panic and unholy fear that left you unable to function on even the most instinctual level. Something so wounded and rancid, it tainted who you were down to your core.

The London Blitz was something horrible. Something bloody and cruel like a feral dog with its leg in a trap. Desperation; willing to chew its own muscle and tendons and snap its bone because it wanted to _live._

_‘Please God, let me live.’_

_‘Please God, let me live.’_

_‘Please God…’_

War, was something unbound by time.

War rarely ever changed, really.

_‘...I don’t want to die.’_

* * *

 

The first thing that Harry thought, was that the smell of cranberries was a strange smell for a ritual. He had been preparing himself for a sharp bite of sulfur, or maybe the gagging fumes of the Divination tower. Maybe a little sparks or ominous chanting in the wind. He didn’t know much about rituals so he was genuinely expecting anything that had an unsettling feeling to it.

Instead, there was a pungent recognizable smell of cranberries, like Ron had accidentally flipped a bowl of jelly across the entire table.

There was a thin wispy line of pink smoke, opaque like a ribbon. It wiggled in the air, like a tentacle from the Giant Squid waving a friendly hello. Moody stood in the middle of it all, his thin hair rising above his head dramatically. Harry almost laughed from the ridiculousness of it all.

There was a tiny pop, Harry thought it was his jaw at first. Sometimes he yawned and it made a similar noise. His forehead itched, then _burned._

“Shit!” Harry cursed, hands slapping against his forehead against the sharp burn of his scar. For some reason it was wet, although he could _tell_ it wasn’t the same type of pain he knew. It was...something deeper and sore, but not so unbearable that he couldn’t breathe.

Moody’s arms lifted, and Harry almost laughed at how asinine everything was.

Another tiny pop, like someone a few feet away popped an especially impressive bubblegum bubble, and then there was a person.

 _‘Oh’_ Harry thought to himself numbly, _‘that’s not Moody.’_

 _‘Oh.’_ Harry quickly thought again once his brain comprehended what exactly had happened. _‘Oh shite.’_

It was a teenager, thin with long limbs. Wearing clothing Harry couldn’t imagine Dudley ever wearing or let alone fitting in even in a few sizes larger. Muted colours and fraying edges that looked itchy even from the slight distance. They looked like they belonged in a second hand store, or maybe a British archive.

The thin cuffs were too big, the pants were rolled up and hacked off with dull scissors or a knife. Harry had _worn_ worse, so it wasn’t that bad.

The boy was splayed on the ground, adjusting slowly with a small groan so quiet Harry almost missed it. Arms moved, legs adjusted. There wasn’t any blood spewing anywhere, so already that was better than expected.

Moody sharply finished the ritual, lowing his arms and transitioning from shaman to confused auror. Obviously, the boy slowly recovering was not Moody.

Another low groan, long heavily bruised fingers curling into a low fist as whoever it was jerked up into a kneeling position. Messy greasy hair in messy clumps hid the face, although clearly male.

“Uh,” Harry wisely said.

The newcomer lifted one black and blue hand up to clutch his temple, slurring out a low but still audible, “Wot’ ‘he bleedin’ ‘ell?”

“Cockney.” Harry blurted intelligently.

Barely a second happened before the stranger was swinging his left hand to his side where something was strapped there- then a _sword_ popped out.

 

Well, a sword was an exaggeration but it was larger than a knife. Ornate and antique, dirty and muddied up but held in a tight grip. A bloody _dagger,_ and Harry was respectfully paranoid when facing suspicious individuals wielding sharp blades. His arm throbbed at the memory.

“Oi!” Moody shouted the moment he spotted the knife, _kicking_ upwards to displace the flat of it with his prosthetic leg. The knife didn’t fly away, but it was jerked in a thin grip so it wasn’t as dangerous. “Put that away, boy!”

The stranger reeled back, predatory lunging backwards onto mismatching boots. There was a hole in the one, no socks.

“Cop the bloody hell fire from me!” They spit out sharply, nearly equaling Professor Snape in level of frigidity. Harry instantly took a step back, some sort of gut instinct telling him to _back off._

Moody’s scowl sunk in and he pulled his wand, jerking it at the ready. The stranger spotted it and twisted back- his skin was sickly pale and somewhat yellow in a few spots- then made an undisguised choking noise.

“A bloody _wand,_ i’n’it?” A choked noise, then a skittering step backwards. Moody instantly stiffened, holding his wand ready. Harry realized that pulling his wand would likely be a good idea, so he too fumbled to get it out of his back pocket.

The stranger and one hand through his disgusting hair, pushing it up out of his face although the bloodied knuckles muffled his hysterical: “ _Bollocks._ ”

The hand lowered, Harry made a loud “ah!” and took a step backwards. Moody looked very exasperated.

“Who are you?” Moody grumbled out.

Tom Riddle’s gaunt bruised face glared, thin lips pulling back savagely. He was a feral animal, something chained up and abandoned in a junkyard and a skeleton of instinctual drive to survive, and pure spite.

“Cockney.” Harry blurted again, although his voice was more wondering than horrified.

Tom’s face twitched, dark eyes lined with thick purple bags. Bloodied knuckles smoothed disgusting hair and brushed against a flaking stain on his left cheekbone. It fell away like a dark powder, soot, or blood.

“Ah, my apologies.” Tom Riddle spoke, hoarse and guttural and in all ways a _snarl._ No cockney in sight, although Harry could never forget that surreal drawl from a face he’d never forget.

Tom Riddle’s eyes flashed darkly, the waxy glimmer of his skin made him look sickly. Tom Riddle bared his teeth and said, “I stress, _fuck you.”_

* * *

 

It took awhile to wrestle him into compliance. Most of the time Harry stood there in dumb shock, Moody did most of the talking. It took nearly as long to explain what happened (which nobody could figure out), as it took to get the dagger out of Tom Riddle’s hand. Being threatened at wandpoint gave the world a special perspective. The cockney accent vanished, instead there was a smooth drawl that hitched a little at first but now sounded as natural as breathing.

“Cockney.” Harry whispered to himself almost in bliss, feeling very satisfied with the knowledge.

Tom Riddle was practically frog marched into the house with the tip of a wand pressed against the back of his neck. The other was seething, a restrained unit of violent intent that Harry felt worried would lash out at any moment. Harry had a strange sense that even without a wand or a knife, Tom Riddle could kill them if he wanted to.

Tom Riddle sat down in the chair Moody pointed at him to sit in. His leg moved, calf balancing on his knee. His head tilted _just so,_ and suddenly Harry felt like he had seen this boy in the chamber below the castle years ago.

“So,” Moody grumbled sourly, looking composed although Harry knew he was just as bewildered. “You must be confused.”

Tom Riddle’s fingers tapped along the exposed skin of his wrist. The skin looked sickly, his nails broken and chipped into small nubs.

“Unfortunately.” Tom clipped out, yet impossibly the word drawled out patronizingly. Harry wondered how Snape never mastered an intimidating aura with a single word. Moody ran one hand down his face tiredly, magical eye rolling in its socket.

“Alright, the bag.” Moody grunted, and Tom Riddle very fluidly reached for the small side bag on his hip. It looked like canvas, nondescript. Fairly small but well secured to his side. Harry could have sworn he’d seen the clothes Tom was wearing before, although he had no idea where.

Tom placed it on the table next to him, eyes never leaving Moody.

“Leave it,” Moody demanded, slowly hobbling over to slide the bag further away using the tip of his wand. Moody mumbled something, swishing his wand. The bag glowed ever so slightly.

“Enchanted,” Moody growled, Harry felt something grow tenser. Tom blinked slowly, not bothered.

Moody unzipped the zipper, ignoring the small tear near the metal teeth. He reached inside, jerking the flap open wide so he could peer inside. Whatever his magical eye saw, it clearly wasn’t what he wanted to find.

“Fine,” Moody grunted sharply, “go clean up. Kitchen sink. Po...Harry, go let Mrs. Weasley know.”

“Right, sir.” Harry scrambled to his feet. His feet made obnoxious squeaking noises on the floor, Tom Riddle didn’t even look at him.

Mrs. Weasley took to the idea that there was a stranger in her kitchen quite well. In hindsight, with how often Harry popped by unannounced it likely wasn’t odd at all. Once Harry explained that Moody somehow summoned a boy through cranberries and ribbons, she was already ignoring him and muttering about breakfast. Harry had a strange feeling that Tom wouldn’t be that cheery for homemade toast.

“Mrs. Weasley, I _really_ think that you should wait!” Harry scrambled after, trying to keep his voice low so he wouldn't wake the other occupants of the house. Dealing with a gaggle of Weasleys was always much more difficult than the matriarch herself.

“None of that, Harry!” Mrs. Weasley shushed him gently, hurrying into the kitchen with a fond smile. “No dearie! Leave it all to me!”

Harry couldn’t express in all the words in the English language, how much of a bad idea that was.

They entered the kitchen just as the boy in question was retreating to a corner. One of Mrs. Weasley’s bright dish towels was wiping across his face, other portions of it looked thick with grime. Other sections looked reddish and almost crusted over.

“Oh,” Mrs. Weasley looked taken aback although she recovered quickly, like a mother who had seen almost every possible monstrosity in her kitchen before. “Don’t worry, dearie! I’ll fetch you another one!”

Tom Riddle’s eyes peered out, clouded and distrusting. The dish towel was completely ruined.

“Wow,” Harry spoke without thinking as he was prone to doing when tired or overwhelmed, “that is a lot of dirt.”

Tom Riddle’s face twitched and he splashed more water on his face- a small dish that Mrs. Weasley normally used for decorative fruit. It was a smart idea, Harry didn’t know why he hadn’t ever considered having a bowl of water instead of constantly fighting with the magical taps.

He splashed and ran his broken nails over skin, clawing and leaving ever so faint red lines. Scrubbing away dirt without considering a new cloth or something else. Harry doubted he used any of the soap offered for washing dishes.

“Here dear!” Mrs. Weasley returned, holding out not only a clean full body towel, but a few washcloths made for scrubbing. Tom said nothing, he set to work scrubbing with a mindless efficiency that both startled Harry and made him uncomfortable. The water in the bowl quickly clouded over. Tom then went so far as to _dunk_ part of his head in the water, scrubbing without care for the lack of soap.

“Ah,” Harry interrupted after a few seconds of staring at this surreal display. “There’s ah, soap.”

Tom didn’t look at him.

Tom dumped the water down the drain, flipping the bowl for drying before he used the towel to scrub his hair dry. It stuck up in weird clumps; the white towel was grey from oils. It overall was...odd.

Tom stepped away, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe against the sharp cut of his jaw. It was dirtier than the towel, but looked like a mindless habit. Harry spotted dark purples and red, sick yellows like pus sprinkled over a sunken bony-.

“You done?” Tom Riddle spoke, voice hoarse and raspy. It wasn’t at all the smooth baritone that Harry remembered from the chamber. It sounded...rattly.

“Er, yes I ah, I-...” Harry scrambled over an excuse, unable to think, “ah…”

“You also repeated _cockney_ earlier,” Tom echoed flatly, “not very bright, are you?”

Harry flushed, feeling the heat burn in his face. Tom ignored him, using fingers to comb through his wet black hair.

“You caught me off guard.” Harry finally managed to explain, Tom ignored him and skirted out of the kitchen and back to the table, taking a seat in the chair from earlier. He looked better, cleaner although not pristine. His face wasn’t coated in dirt, but the waxy yellowish tinge was still there.

Moody grunted once from the other chair, having been waiting.

“Alright,” Tom spoke first, taking control of the conversation. “Perhaps an agreement would benefit us both. I only want my bag and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Oh,” Harry blurted in cold realization. “Oh you don’t know.”

“Quiet, Harry.” Moody interrupted with a low voice, squinting both his eyes across the table at Tom. “What year is it?”

Tom looked on guard, cautious and perplexed by the questions. He smiled, all soft gentle movements that hid the jaded ends of his barbed words. “How unfortunate, you must be confused.”

“Answer the question, Riddle, was it?” Moody glanced at Harry who nodded mutely.

Tom’s face flickered ever so slightly, eyes observing Harry for the first time the entire morning.

“I see,” Tom stated flatly, all pleasantries gone, “You appear to know my name yet I am unfamiliar with my captors.”

Moody reclined in his chair, his prosthetic scratched over the floor. “What year is it, Riddle.”

It wasn’t phrased like a question, maybe that was why Tom finally answered.

“September.” Tom clipped out coldly. “1942. You know this.”’

Harry inhaled so sharply he choked on his spit. He hurriedly turned away, hacking and wheezing as he nearly asphyxiated on his own saliva.

“Yeah,” Moody grimaced with a slight disgruntled noise hidden in his tone, “that’s a problem.”

Tom’s eyes flickered back and forth again, face carefully blank. “What year is it.”

Moody almost grinned. “You’re in for a big surprise. Harry, let Mrs. Weasley know her dining room is off limits for the day. Send a message to Headquarters, tell Nymphadora that I am having a broom malfunction.”

Harry almost laughed at the strange phrase, “I didn’t know you enjoyed flying, sir.”

Moody didn’t take his eyes away from the challenging stare Tom directed at him. “I don’t. It’s a code I use for when things have gone horribly wrong.”

Tom almost smiled.

* * *

 

“You understand the situation.” Moody finished with a blunt nod, sliding a sheaf of paper across the table.

Tom mechanically picked the paper up, not glancing at the written contents once. Tom blinked slowly, purposefully, before he started to speak.

“You say that I am in the future, although you refuse to disclose any factual evidence or information regarding how far.” Tom started accusatory. “You also state you used a form of ritual, however in my knowledge all rituals with direct affect on individuals are banned by Ministry use. You have kidnapped me, which is a...hefty criminal violation. You state that I will follow your direction based on... _not_ providing proper evidence for your claims?”

“Well,” Moody grumbled with a small huff, “if you want to play entitled, then fine. Do you realize that since you aren’t supposed to _exist,_ you don’t _have_ any rights?”

“Philosophy, is an interest of mine.” Tom began sharply. “Your mistaken perceptions of legalities are not dismissable over the treatment I am receiving currently.”

“Big words for a brat screaming cockney when you weren’t off your arse yet.”

“How fortunate for you, that I had not anticipated being victim of _illegal ritual magic.”_

Moody huffed a little and scratched his face. “You’re a cocky one, aren’t ya?”

Tom didn’t say anything in response.

The door opened with a bang. Someone fell inside, clumsily catching themselves on the edge of the table before missing and dropping further. A yelp, a flash of purple, and then a woman was poking her head up over the edge.

“Hi!” She cheered happily, hair changing into a vibrant blue before their eyes, “My name is Tonks! Oh wow, where you find this one, Moody?’

Tom bristled, eyes flickering over her colourful hair.

“A metamorphmagus.” Tom spoke, voice a low purr that had rumbles and hitches throughout. He sounded like an alley cat. “A pleasure, I’ve never been permitted such company prior.”

Tonks’ eyebrows rose and her mouth dropped into a little ‘o’ in realization. Moody huffed quietly.

“Auror Tonks,” Moody waved towards another unoccupied seat, “we’re got a temporal disturbance. Department of Mysteries wet dream right here.”

Tom’s eyebrows twitched slightly, Tonks flung herself in the unoccupied chair.

“Wotcher!” She beamed excitedly, “a temporal disturbance! How exciting, when are you from?”

“1942,” Moody grunted, tapping the table top twice, “September. Not only a yearly displacement, but the entire summer.”

“Well _that’s_ unusual.” Tonks confessed with a wide stare and a few quick blinks, “but time travelers are all unusual. You look horrible! Well, I mean you likely look great but right now you’re looking a bit peckish.”

Tom blinked slowly, and folded his calf on his leg again. “I request a representative from the Ministry for all further discussions.”

Tonks’ expression fell. She looked at Moody, who had an equally faltering face.

“Oh, so I was right then.” Tom continued without taking a breath. “Perhaps you are aurors, perhaps not. You’re running from an independent affiliation, which somehow accidentally targeted me. Runic magic is not permitted, yet you were experienced with the runic layout I saw before you _dragged_ me here. I wonder, if I were to activate the trace, how quickly would Ministry officials investigate and find your little experiment?”

Moody slammed one hand on the table. Nobody jumped.

“You know damn well trace magic was removed over ages of 11 in the 40’s.” Moody growled out coldly. “Your threat may work for anyone who _doesn’t_ know ministry operations, but you’re a goddamn _brat_ in our experience.”’

Tom’s eyes flickered down to the table, where parts of Moody’s fingers had been blown off over the year. “Ah yes. An expert I see.”

Tonks choked audible and flushed so hard her hair turned red.

“Cheeky.” Moody grumbled low, looking more aggravated by the second.

“So,” Tonks recovered although her voice hitched slightly, “I’ve got...some, questions ya’ know just to-.”

“Full name?” Moody practically shouted.

Tom’s lower lip curled slightly. “Tom. Riddle.”

They already knew that, but it looked like Tom was going to cooperate since they were at a stalemate.

“Thank you Tom!” Tonks chirped out, fumbling with the sheet of paper Moody slid to her. She pulled her wand, twisting it to conjure a quill. Her tongue poked out the corner of her mouth as she hastily scribbled down his name. “How old are ya?”

Tom folded his fingers carefully together, face blank. “Fifteen years old.”

“Right around our problem trio’s age.” Tonks hummed to herself, writing that down too, “birthday? And year?

Tom’s face _finally_ wrinkled slightly in distaste. “December 31st. 1927.”

Moody’s face didn’t change, but Tonks made a small noise of interest. She grinned excitedly, her hair flickering ever so slightly as her joy became visible.

“Wow!” She chattered like a small animal, scribbling something on her paper. “I mean, I knew it was real since Moody here wouldn’t make this up, but its so wild! Do you want something to eat? I can get you a drink!”

Tom’s face was flat, he didn’t look nearly as amused as Tonks was.

“Have you been treated okay?” Tonks asked with a small tilt to her head, “Mrs. Weasley can grab you a blanket if you’re cold!”

Tom’s lower lip curled downwards ever so slightly. “This is pathetic.”

Tonks made a small _pshh_ noise and flipped her hand dismissively. “After this would you like a shower? You’re looking a bit mangled, what happened to look like _that?”_

Tom shifted in his chair ever so slightly, his face just as neutral as before.

“You okay, mate?” Tonks asked worriedly, her eyebrows furrowing in alarm.

“...You’re asking me closed questions, not relevant to the topic at hand. You will not answer any of my questions, lest you shift the control of this interrogation into my hands. You’re aiming to deliberately trick me into believing i’m not in any trouble.” Tom spoke flat, eyes flickering to Tonks bluntly. “This is standard interrogation practice.”

Moody huffed once again, then shifted his weight. His chair slid against the floor ever so slightly.

“Wow, you are bloody brilliant.” Tonks recovered with a small degree of awe, “I heard that I was supposed to be careful, but that's wicked. How did you ever learn this crummy stuff?”

Tonks made a small scoffing noise. He crossed his arms, tone as offended as he looked. “Free narrative questions now. Are you going to deviate from the textbook and give me a challenge or are you planning to go through your little checklist?”

Tonks blinked three times in rapid succession.

“When you were summoned here, did you notice anything odd before?” Moody grumbled sourly.

Tom smiled, his teeth were briefly exposed. “Direct questions now. Did you abandon your free narrative inquiry so soon? My, and I thought you were experienced.”

“I’ve interrogated enough brats to know when you’re not going to get anywhere,” Moody rumbled low in his throat like a large dog. “I’ve interrogated more psychopaths and murderers than you’ll ever know, boy. This is outright ignorance at its finest.”

Tom’s eyes were perceptively sharp. “Is that so? When I arrived here, where were you in direction to myself? You were close, startlingly so. You admitted to the illegal ritual which although you performed supposedly successful, you are not distressed or worried at all. Your interrogation techniques _are_ standard but you’ve not acknowledged proper auror regulation for investigations or witnesses. I believe I’ve summarized our situation clearly, although you could certainly add to it. I’m so terribly sorry if I’ve overwhelmed you, would you like me to repeat myself at a slower speed? You _do_ know how an investigation works, I believe?”

Moody’s face darkened in restrained rage. Tonks gaped in confusion.

Tom’s grin spread a hair’s length further. “Closed questions, free narrative questions, direct and cross-questioning. Very _standard._ Is there anything else that you can tell me about this?”

Tonks flushed in embarrassment as she recognized the last question, as a review question; the final standard tool for investigative interrogations.

Moody made a low crackling noise in his throat that may have been his sanity slowly draining from his missing eye socket.

“Oh dear,” Tom spoke in a mockery of anything polite. “That sounds quite ill. I have it on good assurance that Mrs. Weasley would _love_ to provide you a drink. _Isn’t that right?”_

His eyes slid ever so slowly to Tonks, who recovered from her flush into something a shade more pale.

Moody’s cheek twitches. “I have half a mind to curse you, brat. But that duper’s delight will kick you enough.”

Tom’s fake pleasant smile didn’t shift. “How petty to _accuse_ me of _ever_ finding pleasure in deceiving others. Why, that’s such a cruel accusation. Truly, piercing.”

Tonks looked over at Moody, her discomfort nearly screaming. Her entire body posture hunkered inwards on herself, her face timid and uncertain. “Moody? Should I...ah, contact…”

Moody grimaced, even he looked unsure. “We’re saving the veritasium for more high profile suspects. I don’t want to waste it.”

Tom _twitched,_ face blank. It was impossible to tell if the thought of the truth serum was actually that horrific, or if he took even more offense to _not_ being a high profile suspect.

Moody sighed through his nose, the noise was broken slightly into a low whistle from the air escaping the bits of cartilage that never healed properly. “Listen, Riddle. Your situation is very delicate and you had best cooperate. We can make this very easy, or make this very difficult. Either way, you have nothing to gain and everything to lose.”

Tom Riddle sighed slightly, “I thought we were past stating obvious information, _auror.”_

Tonks’s hand twitched in a very clear sign of restraint.

“Then we do this how you want to,” Moody settled bluntly, “quid pro quo.”

For the first time, Tom’s eyes flared with a spark of interest.

“Quid pro quo,” he played with the words, rolling them with a strange sort of fluidity to the words. “ _Do ut des. '_ I give, so that you may give.’ Fascinating concept, a naked contract.”

Moody didn’t raise to the bait. “You know Latin.”

Tom resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Naked contract, _nudum pactum._ Context is popular in all areas, auror. _Foresake the devil and all his works_ , along those lines.”

Tonks very carefully made sure that her confusion was not visible. Moody seemed to understand, he nodded ever so slowly and laid his hands flat on the table. The gnarled joints and slightly misaligned bones as that much more apparent. Tom eyed his hands in boredom, following suit although with a lazy curve to his wrist. Somehow, the sight of the gesture made Tonks’ skin crawl.

Moody started, asking very bluntly: What were you doing before you were summoned.

Tom smiled like he had won something highly sought. _In London._

Tom spoke smoothly like the velvet feel of a flower petal: where am I.

Moody told him, and they talked.

They talked, answering and asking in turn. Tonks nearly bristled as the topics started to delve into more uncertain areas; where precisely they were located currently. Which family Moody and Tonks came from. Who the boy was that was in the room earlier. Who knew that Tom was here.

“Alright,” Tonks interrupted after Tom’s smooth words manage to unnerve even Moody. “You’ve asked enough. What are your intentions towards others?”

Tom’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Amusement masked behind a dull face. He was nearly gleeful in her hasty interruption. “ _My_ intentions? Oh dear, you make it seem as if I’m courting.”

Tonks twitched, she hadn’t ever wanted to punch a suspect so hard in her life.

“I can see why you’re so hesitant,” Tom spoke calmly. “I understand that my conversation is generally _so enthralling.”_

Tonks’ heart beat quickly. She knew he couldn’t hear it.

“I imagine how _wretched_ it would be to ever be handcuffed to myself.” His eyes were far too vibrant with amusement. “Oh dear, you look so bluenose to be upstaged.”

It took Tonks a split second to recognize that he had incorporated slang that was heavily out of date. A sentence in common English that seemed peculiar, but had an entire double meaning she had no context to understand.

“Wow,” She stated bluntly without even pretending to keep her composure. “You’re a bloody arse.”

Tom’s eyes flickered in delight having won the interrogation. “A phrase I’ve heard commonly heard directed at me after my discussions is _vade retro satana._ Perhaps in a few months, you’ll have a rudimentary understanding to appropriately use it.”

Aurors were required to know introductory Latin for work; it had been that way for centuries.

Tonks tilted her head, and seriously contemplated smashing Tom Riddle’s teeth out.

* * *

 

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but from the muffled noises coming through the silencing ward it wasn’t anything good.

The door was closed shut but there wasn’t a standard privacy ward up, otherwise he would have heard nothing. It seemed like a good idea, if there were any shouts of alarm he’d be able to hear it.

Tonks had slipped inside not that long ago, sending him a single wink before she went in to face the lion. So far, it didn’t sound like they’d made any leeway.

Harry glanced towards the stairs as Hermione descended sleepily, yawning widely. She jolted in surprise at seeing him up so early, it was still well before breakfast.

“Harry!” She startled with a small smile, “you’re up early today!”

Harry sheepishly ran one hand through the disaster of his hair. “Yeah, I was helping Moody with something. It didn’t...work out right.”

Hermione blinked a few times in surprise, “didn’t work out? Are you hurt? What _happened?”_

Harry wasn’t sure how to breach the subject of Lord Voldemort having dirtied a dish towel from dirt on his now existing nose, so he simply shrugged again.

Hermione poked her head around, seeing the closed doors that artificially were muffled. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Yeah that's, ah…” Harry trailed off badly, “that’s the bit that didn’t work out right. Moody’s fine though!”

Hermione nodded slowly, then turned and walked into the kitchen to help Mrs. Weasley with breakfast. Harry let out an internal sigh of relief.

The rest of the house started to wake up, but still Moody and Tonks didn’t come out of the room. The conversation went on longer, then Fred and George were popping around stealing bits of toast and loudly arguing about the prophets report. Ron stumbled down later, foggy eyed and exhausted.

“Hey mate,” Ron yawned loudly, “didn’t hear you get up.”

Harry grimaced and nodded slowly, “ah yeah, I was helping Moody with something.”

Ron grunted once then stumbled off for morning juice.

Everything about it was odd, he didn’t understand it at all. Why was _Tom Riddle_ here now? Why did he suddenly appear in a ritual to summon an alternate version of Moody? What happened to _Voldemort_ if Tom Riddle was here?

How old _was he?_ Had he-. Had he opened the chamber yet?

The door opened ever so slightly, Tonks poked her head out- her hair a soft shade of blue. Her face lit up happily, although the small crinkle on the corner of her eye suggested she was thoroughly ticked by something. “Wotcher Harry! Could you go get a change of clothes? Reckon you're pretty close!”

“Er, sure.” Harry fumbled; Tom Riddle _had_ seemed pretty thin when Harry saw him last. Maybe they were close in size, although the Tom he knew from the diary had been much taller. Maybe a delayed growth spurt?

Harry hurried up to Ron’s room, searching through his bag for a spare change of clothing. Nothing too bright or bold, although Harry was half tempted to drag out his Gryffindor shirt in loud red and gold. He settled for something he didn’t wear much, a dark navy and a pair of trousers that were the longest pair. He was going to see if Mrs. Weasley could hem them for him, but the length should be fine. He swiped a clean pair of other necessities, one of the small traveling sprays that magically cleaned hair. It wasn’t too ruddy for smell after a Quidditch practice either. Oliver Wood had sworn by them, and honestly during exam season they were miracles to have around.

Harry hurried back downstairs, careful not to drop any of the clothing he hoarded. Tonks lit up the moment she spotted him, moving from her reclined posture against the door. Harry wondered if her acting like a bodyguard was intentional, or truly coincidence.

“Thanks mate!” Tonks grinned, meaning in for a whisper, “think you’re up to saying hi? He’s bloody _off his rocker.”_

Harry blinked twice and quickly recovered, “really? I thought he would be...er...intellectual.”

“More like an ass of the finest caliber.” Tonks pouted, rolling her eyes and gesturing him to slide in the door. She closed it quickly after him, protecting his back.

 _Oh,_ it was strange.

He could see Tom Riddle from the diary in his face, in the sharp shape of his cheekbones and the point of his chin. The cold way his eyes took him in, systematically scanning over his face and body until they flickered away uninterested.

“Alright,” Moody grumbled, looking like a giant in Mrs. Weasley's small dining room chairs, “We’ve got clothes that should fit. We got through your bag, you change into new things, _then_ we’ll let you loose.”

Tom Riddle blinked slowly, like Crookshanks when waiting for dinner. “How thoughtful.”

Harry twitched at the voice, not the smooth baritone he remembered. It was higher in pitch, hoarse and crackled although it was fairly well disguised. In fact, Tom Riddle that Harry remembered looked very different.

Moody didn’t appreciate the dry commentary, but he pulled out the bag that Tom had arrived with, and set it on the table between them. Tom made no movement forward.

Harry was suddenly very aware that Tonks was boxing off the only exit in the room.

“I’m going to pull out every single thing in this bag, and then I’m going to cast diagnostics.” Moody rumbled low in his throat, “once I have confiscated anything I think dangerous, you’ll strip and we’ll repeat. I take anything I find suspicious.”

Tom tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, “I’m waiting.”

Harry shivered and sat down in the seat provided, trying not to make too big a noise.

He was sitting across from _Lord Voldemort,_ some of the traits already were agonizingly similar. The long shape of his fingers, the way he tilted his head ever so slightly and kept nearly a smirk on his face. It was terrifying, even with two aurors in the room with him.

“Alright.” Moody began lowly, folding his hands in front of him. “Where did you get this bag.”

Tom’s face didn’t change at all. “Would you believe me if I said I found it?”

“You don’t _find_ bags like that.” Tonks huffed from the door in a sour voice, “you stole it from someone.”

Tom made a small cut off exhale of amusement. “I am _certain,_ that the previous owner is not searching for it.”

The tone of voice, the suggestion; Harry shivered and averted his eyes.

Moody pulled out his wand, an old chipped thing, and tapped the bag once. Obediently, the bag unzipped itself.

“Now,” Moody grumbled, muttering quietly as he removed something from his pocket. It restored itself to proper size- revealing itself as the knife that Tom had arrived with. The look of the thing made Harry unsettled, or maybe it was the dark stains near the handle.

“Where did you get this?” Moody asked.

Tom smiled, “the same place I found my bag.”

Tonks huffed ever so quietly.

“...Alright.” Moody accepted, then he began to flick his wand with small incantations to summon all possessions out of the bag.

Harry was increasingly amazed as more and more things seemed to fly out of the small pouch. The small canvas of the bag looked normal, then cans and tins started stacking themselves neatly. Empty wrappers, papers and fliers that unwrinkled themselves and folded out neatly into a little stack on the side. Other small bits and ends started flying out of the bag magically; bits of mangled wire and brass. Small pins that were too tarnished to read. Bits of scrap cloth and hardened cotton- stained with thick blood that had dried on it. Makeshift bandages, long threads attached to shiny needles that looked a bit soot stained on the end.

The oddities gathered. Empty water bags that were flaccid like leather. More knives, some of them as long as Harry’s hand. Grimy glass bottles with screw tops, little tickets with inked print that bled on the corners.

Moody jerked his wand and growled, using a different incantation. From inside the bag, something very recognizable shot out. Moody caught it magically, placing it on the table between them like it was a live bomb.

Tom Riddle’s wand was pale, lighter than normal wands. Nearly white actually, like the skin on birch trees. Longer than Harry’s, almost proportional to Tom Riddle’s long fingers. Moody set it on the table between them- Harry would never forget the sight of that wand in his life.

_‘I want to see your face when I kill you.’_

Harry twitched, knowing he was making a small noise as his eyes locked to the innocent weapon. Tonks took a few steps closer, her presence a comforting warmth behind him.

“Interesting looking wand.” Moody growled flatly, bulging eye rolling around strangely. “Who you kill to make it?”

Tom _huffed,_ a small noise that sounded so odd coming from him. “You and I both know _creating_ wands is a near impossible task without years of training. Bone isn’t a conduit, _auror.”_

“Yew, right?” Harry blurted, unable to shake the coldness that gripped him so tightly. “And Phoenix feather.”

Tom’s eyes slid to him, locking on him firmly. Harry tensed his body, careful to keep from trembling.

“...Correct,” Tom spoke, voice softer than before. He tilted his head, like a raven eyeing the roadkill in front of it, “curious how you know such a thing.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Moody forcefully directed the topic back to the assortment of objects on the table. “I want to know when and where you got these things from, and _why.”_

“Wait!” Tonks blurted, leaning over Harry so close her side brushed his shoulder, “Is that a rubber?”

Harry choked, and much to his horror Tonks flipped her wand with a simple levitating charm and sent a few small packets floating from the table.

Moody didn’t think it was odd, but Harry could _feel_ him blushing all the way to his ears.

Tom didn’t seem scandalized at all, in fact he looked bored with a _highly uncomfortable object_ floating directly in front of his face.

“You’re a bit young.” Moody stated bluntly.

Tom’s mouth twitched ever so slowly. “They’re given to everyone, auror. You know as well as I that they’re used for more than original purpose.”

Moody gave a small nod of admittance, completely ignoring the single thing which made Harry want to run from the room more than Voldemort in the flesh.

The condoms (Harry still was stuttering over the idea of them) were pushed to the side, as well as the tins of food once Tonks ran some diagnostics. From there on, Moody would levitate a single object for Tom to explain, and then move to the pile of sorted objects. Metal from a destroyed building, wiring from a smashed lamp post. Cloth from clothes, dirtied bandages he hadn’t time to clean yet.

The biggest object that made Harry pale, was a single unassuming diary.

Leather, soft and scarred around the corners. Held shut by a loose cloth ribbon securing it shut. The last time Harry had seen that diary, he had heard Tom Riddle _screaming_ and the warm gush of inky blood over his skin.

Tonks picked up on his distress and silently plucked the book, starting to unravel the cloth knot.

Tom made the smallest noise, a small sound of protest that died a second after he started.

Tonks hands kept moving, although her body tensed much further.

“What’s in it, eh?” Moody asked suspiciously.

Tom’s face looked the same, except something darker with a low seething edge was starting to be apparent. “I would prefer the contents to remain undisclosed.”

Tonks flipped the cover carefully, her eyes scanning the name written at the top, then she started to flip through the pages.

They were written in, thick ink in small script that filled both the front and back of each page. A sea of ink on the sparse expanses of white parchment. Every page, covered again and again. Tonks eyes flickered back and forth, darting from one random page to the next. Tom Riddle tensed, hunkering down ever so slightly as he stared at her unrelentingly.

Tonks hesitated at one part, finger hovering over the lettering.

“What is it?” Moody asked.

“...Nothing of concern, sir.” Tonks reported back. “It appears to be a historical war diary, personal data not private data or information of concerning content. I suggest we continue with the clothing check.”

Moody frowned, visibly annoyed hat whatever was in the book provided no harm. Tonks set it on the table, staring at the cracked leather cover for a moment before she slid it towards Tom.

Tom reached for it, slowly pulling it closer to his side. It seemed odd, that with a choice between his wand or a diary he would choose the latter.

“Harry?” Tonks prompted, startling the boy into sliding the procured clothing across the table.

“You’re to strip,” Moody began with a low rumble, jerking his chin at the clothing, “we’ve offered this which should work out fine. I’ll go through that book of yours more in depth and if there’s nothing in it that's of concern, then you can have it back. Your wand will be confiscated until a time we change our mind over it. Once you're dressed, we’re having breakfast with the rest of the house.”

Tom’s fingers tapped on the cover of his book. “A reasonable plan. Allow me a moment.”

Tom stood slowly, making his movements clear. He had no embarrassed stutter or waiver of his hand; he seemed confident or uncaring over modesty. He stripped off the outer shirt, disregarding it in a neat folded pile on the desk.

Tonks whistled, pointing her arm suddenly. “Right arm, bicep. You’ve got a rune of some sort.”

Harry couldn’t even _see it,_ but when Tom reached over and unfastened _something_ it flickered into sight. It looked grimy and old, something sewn into a grey stained bandage tied tightly around the diameter. Small designs or vigils or shapes were very faintly imprinted on, although staring too long made Harry’s head ache.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Moody huffed, squinting at the nondescript magic once Tom placed it on the table. “That’s what, an avoidance rune and an awareness one? Trying to stay out of sight? Made with _blood,_ my, that’s rather dark in nature isn’t it?”

Tom didn’t look intimidated or impressed. “Apologies, I simply hadn’t the _time_ to skip to my nearest post shop and request ink, _auror._ With the _bombs dropping.”_

Moody didn’t seem too upset, but Harry felt his gut twist oddly.

Tom continued stripping, both Tonks and Harry looking away to keep the act private. Moody didn’t bother, although something clearly made the older wizard wheeze out a startled breath. When Tonks and Harry looked back, Tom was rolling the too wide waistband of Harry’s pants tighter, using one of the long ropes from his bag (after asking permission in the most disrespectful manner) in a makeshift belt. Harry wasn’t a big person by any means, but his clothing on Tom both dwarfed the thin flesh on his arms and thighs, while hanging inches too short on his ankles and wrists.

“Is this satisfactory?” Tom asked in the most condescendingly polite way.

Moody’s face barely twitched. “You’ve played this well brat, but you’ve overlooked something important. You think you have an upper hand and you haven’t realized you’re here under _our_ mercy.”

Tom’s smile slipped into something irritated. “Oh? Enlighten me how your disregard for basic humanitarian measures is considered mercy? You’ve been especially rude, it would be a shame if the authorities were informed.’

Moody stood, his chair scraping loudly. He smiled, a wide grinned toothy expression that made Harry instantly take a step out of his way.

“Bold!” Moody _commended,_ “but you’ve been thinking this wrong. You’re bloody intelligent, I’ll give you that. The thing is, _Riddle.”_ Moody sounded nearly ready to laugh.

He walked to the main door throwing the doors open to snap the ward around them. Tom was watching him with a small expression of growing paranoia and outright frustration. He didn’t take well to the blatant insult that he had done something wrong.

“You see,” Moody began, the toothy smirk unrelenting. “You may be in the future, but you're not the first bloody one here.”

Tom’s eyes twitched, moving subconsciously as he frantically thought through all the possible things he could have done wrong. He had been so _sure…_

“Hello?” Someone piped up curiously, poking around the door-frame to peep in. “mum said break’ is ready if you wanted to-.”

Harry’s heart fell and shattered in icy cold realization. Ginny Weasley paled, curdling like spoiled milk. Tom stared at her blankly, not understanding.

“Welcome to the future you backstabbing murdering bastard.” Moody _laughed._

Ginny Weasley blinked rapidly, swayed slightly, and began to _scream._

* * *

[Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!](https://discord.gg/SVrMbMS)


	2. Quid pro quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The culture shock of the world, when you surface and find yourself in a place you never wanted to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter! It got away from me a lot, I was going to emphasize some parts more and others less, but well, I'll get to it eventually. I hope you like it.

Tom Riddle was positively charming and helpful.

After the initial freak out (where Ginny had to be restrained by the twins to prevent her violent assault with a knife), Tom froze up in visible shock and confusion. It was a very obvious expression, his jaw slacking in surprise and alarm at the noise.

There were a few minutes where he stood there in dumb shock, barely reacting past the minimal signs of comprehension. Harry could almost hear the way his brain was hurrying to catch up with the information thrown at him- he certainly was adapting better than Harry would have.

There was a visible restart; Tom blinking quickly and nearly twitching as he processed. At some point, something _worked,_ and his entire body and face relaxed into something subtly off.

His posture was relaxed and calm, shoulders rolled and spine slumped. His face was open, the corners of his eyes relaxed into a somewhat innocent expression. It didn’t fit him, not in the way he was nearly spitting venom just earlier.

“I’m sorry,” Tom apologized in a somewhat sympathetic tone of voice, “I...I don’t think we’ve met-.”

Ginny _screamed;_ the twins pulled her out of the room with visible difficulty.

Moody’s grin twisted into a somewhat disappointed expression, looking more annoyed at the lackluster response.

“Er…” Hermione trailed off, not understanding the scene. “I’m..sorry about that?” Hermione chewed her lower lip nervously. “She’s had a rough time.”

Harry felt a chill run down his spine as Tom nodded sympathetically, his face was incredibly convincing.

“Don’t be so quick, Granger.” Moody grumbled sourly, “this one’s trouble.”

Tonks huffed quietly, crossing her arms annoyed although she said nothing more. She puffed out a small breath, playing with a single strand of hair.

“I’m going to head back to headquarters.” Moody rumbled lowly, keeping his magical eye on Tom. “Get in touch with...our head. As well as Dalour, reckon it would be good to bring him in.”

Mrs. Weasley’s hands slipped on the small bowl in her hands. A small puff of flour exploded upwards, painting a sleeve on her arm white.

“Oh,” she breathed in surprise, “Mr. Dalour? Oh you poor dear!” She gasped, turning her attention onto Tom.

Tom bristled before in a split second shifting it to uncomfortable hesitancy. It was nearly perfect how quickly he changed.

“Yeah,” Moody huffed sourly, “definitely Dalour. Tonks will be staying to keep an eye out on you all, call in if anything happens. Don’t be afraid to incapacitate him.”

“Trust me, I’m not worried.” Tonks responded curtly, layering on the thickness of her annoyance.

Ron looked at Harry in outright surprise. “Blimey mate, what did you bloody _do?”_

“Surprisingly, it wasn’t my fault this time.” Harry defended himself, causing Hermione to giggle softly.

The strange atmosphere didn’t last long. Almost in rhythm, Mrs. Weasley stole them to tackle a new task at hand. Hermione settled on an easier job- setting the table with cutlery. The twins hadn’t returned, likely still calming Ginny down from her fit earlier. Tonks took a steady watchful position near the fireplace. Hermione and Tom (surprisingly enough) was taken into the kitchen to assist in breakfast itself.

Harry didn’t know what the more surprising factor was, the way that Tom incorporated himself smoothly into the operation, or the way he had obvious experience with cooking. Nothing was done by magic either, instead he worked his bruised hands through flour and dough without a second of pause. Kneading and mixing flour and salt with a spoon so old it probably was made before Tom was born. He didn’t argue once.

“Oh thank you dear!” Mrs. Weasley cooed, eyes filled with stars as the biscuits were placed in the oven. Hermione watched as she shredded potatoes, questions obvious in her eye.

“So, Tom!” Mrs. Weasley started, the chipper tone was so amusing to Harry he almost laughed. “Where are you from?”

Tom didn’t blink at the inquiry, although his voice was noticeably lighter than the previous interrogation. “London, ma’am.”

Tonks mouthed it to herself, eye twitching in controlled rage. _“Ma’am?”_

Mrs. Weasley cooed, oblivious to the distressing elephant in the room. “Oh lovely! Lovely lovely, you must be going to Hogwarts! What was your last name again, dear?”

Tom smiled pleasantly and ignored the question, assisting with the stacks of toast.

He eyed the muggle toaster with obvious distrust, and veered away from its use. Hermione took it up easily, swapping off her fry pan without care. Tom took to it like a fish in water, or maybe it was just his ability to mask his reactions which made it seem so effortless.

Soon, they were sliding heaps of biscuits and hash browns on the table, passing large mounds of butter to one another. The twins returned, a pale visibly _seething_ girl between them.

Ginny threw herself  into her chair, the small glass of juice in front of her rattled.

“Don’t throw yourself onto the chair!” Mrs. Weasley scolded firmly, looking ready to toss a dish towel at her. “Tonks dear, are you able to join us?”

Tonks shook her head slowly, not looking away from Tom. “I’d rather not, I have a feeling I’ll be needed anyways.”

Harry quickly glanced at Tom, whose expression had sharpened ever so slightly.

They sat down, Tom’s skin seeming even more waxy with the others sitting nearby. Everyone began to pass the food around, taking servings while offering small talk. Whenever Tom made a word, Ginny began a low nearly feral growling which quickly silenced him into merely smiling. Tonks seemed to share the anger, nearly bristling at every word.

Tom barely ate, instead he pushed the food around on his plate lazily. Harry could see the way his face seemed tighter.

“Tom dear? Aren’t you going to eat any?” Mrs. Weasley asked concerned.

Tom’s face twitched ever so slightly, his fork scraped his plate loudly.

“Of course ma’am.” Tom responded smoothly, obediently. His face paled further as he considered his hash browns.

Tom started to eat, politely and carefully. Once he started, he didn’t stop.

Any sort of reservation he had for appearance seemed to vanish the moment he actually _ate;_ his hands tensed and flexed like it took all sanity he had to keep using an utensil.

Everyone watched with grotesque fascination as Tom ate and ate and _ate._ He ate like he was starving, more and more with increasing desperation. His servings became empty, he tensed in a hunched position over his plate like he was protecting the breadcrumbs he had left.

Tonks made a small noise, waltzing across the kitchen to grab the nearby rubbish bin. She nearly skipped over, looking very satisfied as she nudged it to Tom’s side.

“Oh,” Harry blurted in realization, looking around at the fairly rich fatty foods he had long since grown accustomed too.

Tom managed a single glare, nearly trembling with the force of his willpower.

Ginny looked smug. Tom’s lip curled into something like a snarl- but then he dropped to the side.

Tonks hadn’t been surprised but it was still something horrific to see someone vomit violently. Tom’s borrowed clothing hung on him, but it didn’t disguise the aggressive cramping and the way his entire body jerked with each painful spasm. The food he just ate came up, dripping in runny yellow stomach acid. Large chunks, barely chewed in his ravenous hunger.

He vomited again and again, until his mouth opened so far it looked on the verge of dislocating. Jawbone moving absurdly far under his skin, shifting visibly under the skin of his temple. His hair was matting with sweat where it had begun to air dry.

He retched, primal wet gasping noises as nothing else came up. It was easy to tell he hadn’t eaten for a while; the white film on his tongue suggested similarly.

“Oh,” Mrs. Weasley managed, sounding pained, “perhaps we should move on to the living room.”

Tom managed to open one eye, curled over on himself in his pitiful state. Even now, he looked ready to lunge.

* * *

 

Tom deposited himself on a couch, sprawling across it in both a display of distress, and something of boasting arrogance. He seemed to be glaring at Ginny, proclaiming with his body language _‘this may be your house, but this couch is now mine.’_

It was true, Tom had an aura that surrounded him that left you unsettled and far too aware of your own body. Every insecurity came to the front of your mind, every vulnerability felt glaringly obvious. Even when Tom Riddle was laying on a couch, stinking of vomit and distress.

Tom looked more annoyed that they had seen his sickness, not that he had experienced it at all.

“Moody will be back soon,” Tonks assured them politely, still keeping guard as they settled awkwardly on couches. “I got an update, Mr. Dalour will be by likely before Moody comes back.”

Mrs. Weasley nodded quickly, “of course of course! I feel _horrid,_ is there anything else I can get you, Tom dear? A nice cup of tea?”

Tom didn’t blink from his leisurely sprawl. “No thank you, ma’am. I thank you for your hospitality.”

Mrs. Weasley flushed, Tonks growled. Tom closed his eyes and looked completely at peace.

They could have mistaken him for sleeping if not for the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly at every noise. At Tonks’ request, Harry remained in the room with her. Maybe it was because he too knew about the situation, or maybe it was because Harry _knew him._ Ron and Hermione weren’t granted similar permission, and Ginny seemed completely banned from remaining in the same room as Tom unsupervised. The redhead could likely kill Tom with a spoon and pure determination.

After a period of time that felt much longer due to basic situational anxiety, the fireplace flared green and a wizard stumbled out. He wore standard scratchy robes that signified he had some sort of medical position or worked in a medical facility. His hair was trimmed carefully- another symbol of his position.

Tom’s countenance sharpened as he too came to a similar realization.

“Wonderful,” Mr. Dalour sighed, slightly nasally voice entirely unwelcome. He walked further into the room, depositing a small briefcase that looked made from toad leather. He flipped the latches, pulling out an obnoxiously large book and an ordinary never-ending-ink quill. “It’s been a hell of a morning, you’re lucky it's my day off and you’re paying my sick days. What have we here, miss auror?”

Tonks crossed her arms slowly, looking stonily at the room. “Basic evaluation, suspecting a full situation four although there may be other things included. This ‘ere is Harry who’ll be staying as witness. That’s Tom, who you’re working on.”

Mr. Dalour stilled for a second in blatant surprise, then looked at Tom in something of a new light.

“Tom, eh?” The man frowned, wrinkling his nose into a small sniffle, “you must be someone pretty important to call me out so quickly.”

Tom didn’t shift from his sprawled posture. He didn’t move further than the bare minimum required to talk: “So they say.”

Mr. Dalour almost smiled, then went to flip his book to an empty page. Harry peered at the white expanse, and although there were no words written Harry’s mind filled with static like a swarm of bees. He doubted he’d be able to read anything he wrote anyways.

“So, Mr. Tom.” Dalour began with a sniff, “what brings you to my attention?”

Tom didn’t react further. Solid and stationary like an alligator half submerged. “You tell me. I presume that a full situation four is code for a categorical of shock although _you_ seem well versed with it already. Wartime does that, _mediwizard?”_

Mr. Dalour scribbled down what looked like distorted gibberish to Harry’s eyes. “A category of shock, eh? What makes you believe that?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly, and finally he shifted upright into a seated position. Lazily, long limbs folding and not hitching even with the expanse of bruising across his hands and the prominence of his exposed collarbone.

Tom rose into a seated position, posture tall and strong with the gaunt lines of his face drawing sharper and skeletal. Harry’s breathing became much more laborious as he could vividly imagine scarlet eyes on the half smirk of amusement.

“Oh, you believe you’re so clever.”

Mr. Dalour kept writing, pausing after a particularly large stretch to sigh and look at Tom with a very tired expression.

“Yes, I _am_ clever. I have done this for a long time and frankly this is my day off so I would love to have this finished as soon as possible. Please answer some questions for me, and we can proceed as quickly as possible with this.”

Tom’s smirk didn’t waver; he tilted his head like a curious feline watching a finch in the window.

“Thank you,” Mr. Dolour cleared his throat quietly. “You stated shock previously. Have you been exposed to situations where you believe you’d develop shock?”

Tom’s eyes slowly slid to the side over towards Tonks. “What wards are in place for the confidentiality of this discussion?”

“Perimeter.” Tonks clipped out shortly. “Nothing extensive. Due to the risk of your status. The rest of the house isn’t privy to this but the findings are our information too. I’ve activated a ward on Mr. Dolour’s entry where we’ll know if you lie, but we’re not forcing you to tell the truth either. Don’t make us have to change that.”

Tom _smiled_ and slowly spoke. “My favourite colour is purple.”

There was a thrum, a strange prickly sensation of _odd._ It made Harry squirm uncomfortably, although Tonks and the new man didn’t seem that surprised by the feel.

Tom seemed to chew something over curiously. “Interesting choice. I’m not familiar with the spell.”

“It would be impressive if you did.” Mr. Dolour sighed, scribbling something down with a critical eye as Tom twitched ever so slightly.

“Please answer the question, Tom have you been in situations where you believe may have led to developing some sort of trauma?”

Tom smiled, curious and sharp.

Tonks bristled slightly as seconds continued on and still Tom said nothing.

“Tom,” Mr. Dolour sighed tiredly. “I understand this situation may be incredibly stressful. I’m trying to help you, and I reckon you aren’t used to that. Have you had many people help you before?”

Tom looked far too curious.

Harry felt like his tongue was swollen and heavy in his mouth.

“Do you think you can help me?” Tom asked politely, calm and blunt. “Truly? Or do you believe that your work with labeling and categorizing madness is all you can contribute. Is this your ideal place in the world, or have you accepted that your worthless contribution means so little you’ve settled for scum.”

Tonks looked ready to take one step forward, Mr. Dolour lifted one hand calmly.

“I see you’re feeling a bit targeted right now, and I’m sorry about that.” He apologized. “I only want to help you, Tom. Is it okay if I help you?”

Tom’s lip curled back ever so slightly. “You are a pathetic contribution to the world.”

The ward didn’t thrum; Tom Riddle’s truthful opinion felt unshakably cold. Mr. Dolour scribbled in his book.

“Do you feel afraid of me?” Tom asked calmly.

“No.” Mr. Dolour didn’t look up from where he was writing. Completely at ease.

Harry wanted to interrupt, to argue that Tom Riddle certainly was dangerous. The man seemed completely unaware.

“I’ve killed a rabbit with a knife.” Tom spoke calmly. The ward thrummed with an unmistakable sense of _wrong wrong wrong._

Tom’s expression didn’t change. “I’ve hung a rabbit and watched it die because I _wanted to.”_

The wards didn’t thrum.

Mr. Dolour stopped writing instantly.

“Tom,” Mr. Dolour asked calmly, although it was a forced level of professionalism. “That’s something quite impressive. Why did you want the rabbit to die?”

Tom didn’t rise to it, instead he stared at the man with something difficult to read.

“You don’t need to be here, you know.” Tom dismissed without acknowledging his questions. “I understand why they summoned you. They think I’m mad, I’ve heard it often enough. I don’t need a mediwizard.”

Mr. Dolour sighed heavily. “The idea may be a bit uncomfortable, but perhaps you could try? You may feel better talking. Do you feel sometimes like you are alone?”

Tom’s eyebrows shifted ever so slightly, curious. “I don’t need a doctor.”

Mr. Dolour looked ready to rub his temples. “Tom-.”

“Have you ever been terrified?” Tom asked quietly, eyes bright and unsettling. “Have you ever believed you were going to die, doctor?”

There was a cold atmosphere that descended on them, that chilled them deeper than any admission would. The easy way Tom asked that, like nothing mattered in perspective.

“...No I haven’t-.”

“I have.” Tom spoke with a smile that did not fit on his face. A sharpness to his expression that made even Tonks twitch. “I’ve watched men like you _squirm_ like rats.”

Tom’s smile exposed his gums; his teeth were starting to yellow and his gums looked inflamed and sore.

“I would _love_ to watch you _rot.”_

The wards didn’t thrum.

A thick heavy suffocating silence weighed on them, oppressing. It laid over them like heavy cream, sweet and saccharine.

Tonks cleared her throat and Mr. Dolour exhaled shakily, closing his book with somewhat shaking fingers.

“Right.” Mr. Dolour spoke, his voice hoarse and somewhat shaky. “I’m going to...I’m...tell Alastor that I’m removing myself from this case I don’t...Don’t contact me again I…”  
Harry wasn’t surprised at all when Mr. Dolour scrambled off, unsettled and shaken by the honesty of Tom’s words.

“Forgive me father,” Tom _grinned_ feral, “it has been a while since my last _confession_.”

 

* * *

 

Tom was living proud, calm and confident. Mrs. Weasley didn’t understand why Mr. Dolour, the order mediwizard for referrals left so suddenly. Normally the man was quite professional- perhaps a bit skittish but nothing that would explain his hasty departure.

Tonks seemed even more frustrated, tense and scathing over the smallest things. It wasn’t even noon yet and Mrs. Weasley was unsure of how to continue with the day.

The floo surged with fire, a small puff of ash and two figures were emerging.

“Moony!” Harry blurted, lunging to his feet with a breathless grin. Tom, having taken to his couch in a defensive sprawl. He watched with a clinical eye, not rising to any sort of mock niceties considering his morning so far.

“Hello Harry.” Remus smiled back, accepting the hug from the smaller boy. It was more of a collapse against the man’s larger frame, but he caught him instantly.

“Harry!” Remus hurried in a hushed but worried voice, “are you alright?”

“I’ve had a really tiring day, Moony.”

Remus patted his back twice, looking very uncomfortable.

“Remus!” Tonks grinned, rushing from her guard post with a relieved whoosh of air. “ _Please_ tell me Moody is coming back!”

Remus looked equally startled by her own exhaustion. “I- yes. He’s fetching A- _oh._ I had…” Remus trailed off, finally catching eye of Tom.

Tom stood, slowly rising to his short lanky state. He hunkered slightly, swaying and blinking quickly once he stood tall before he adjusted to the sudden change in altitude. Then he prowled, striding across the short distance of the living room.

Remus took an instinctual step backwards, dragging Harry with him. Remus made a low rumble, something deeper than a whine but quieter than a snarl. Tom’s eyes glinted like a sharp stone. He said nothing.

The fireplace burned brightly again, a plume of green fire. A wizard stepped out, casually brushing soot off his bright maroon robes.

“Oh dear,” Albus Dumbledore spoke calmly, observing Tom with a hard look built into his face, “it seems this is quite a situation.”

Tom’s face froze in shock, unable to comprehend. Worse than before, like an epiphany had formed in all  the worst ways.

“No.” Tom blurted, word slurred slightly with the numbness of his mouth. “No, _no._ You aren’t- you- _you’re bloody kidding me.”_

Dumbledore smiled thinly, not friendly but not outright cruel. “Hello again, Tom. You’ve aged well.”

Tom made a whine, a low noise of distress before the smooth composition of his words shifted into the rough rhyming slang of his cockney from before. He spluttered over pure sounds, hissing syllables before he spat out a furious line of “ _I manage ter get oray and I end up wiv this crap, isit?”_

Albus Dumbledore blinked quickly in surprise before he chuckled quietly, almost fond. “Ah, I missed that accent of yours. It vanished by your sixth year if I recall correctly.”

Tom recoiled; his mouth opening and closing before he hunched in fury. “I 'ope yer choke on yor stewpid candies yer goat.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore sighed in relief, “what a beautiful sound.”

Remus smoothly tried to interrupt. “Albus? Perhaps we should…”

“Ah, yes. You’re most certainly right, my friend.” Albus nodded carefully, stroking his long beard- braided off on one side messily. “Molly? A cup of tea would be splendid.”

“Oh yes!” She hurried, searching for a well worn kettle.

Tom’s nostrils flared and he walked backwards, not retreating but instead returning to his couch to watch the proceedings in his natural state; angrily.

“I understand we have had quite an interesting day.” Albus confessed, lowering himself on a nearby chair with a sigh of his old bones. “Ah, I see young Harry here has been keeping you company.”

“The more I hear about him,” Tom began in the once more composed tone, careful British. “The more I find his existence irritable.”

Remus choked on a laugh, and Harry found himself nearly grinning at the hilarity of the situation. Oh Merlin, he couldn’t wait for when the boy learned about the scar on his head.

“Ah, I see.” Dumbledore nodded in sympathy, “this must be quite alarming for you, Tom. What was the last thing you remember?”

Tom _glared_ with unadulterated hate. “Don’t go betraying your intentions now, professor. One may mistake it for compassion.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, accepting the saucer of tea that Molly quickly gave him. She skirted off, leaving the group in their tense stand off.

“I apologize for any mixed signals I’ve given you,” Dumbledore apologized slowly, “I have your best intentions in mind.”

Tom tilted his head, nostrils flaring. For however cruel and sharp he was with Tonks and Moody, it was nothing compared to the glowing coals of fury that raged behind Tom’s eyes.

“Don’t lie to me now, professor.” Tom grinned behind sharp bared teeth. “You were always fond of your white lies and half baked truths.”

Dumbledore’s face wrinkled in confusion. “I am sorry I don’t understand-.”  
Tom’s face twisted into something that could never be considered pretty. Pinched and strained, waxy skin over a taught canvas that painted him in shades of blood.

“Did you hope I’d die?” Tom asked him, low in a snarl. “Is _that_ why you sent me back? _Again and again?”_

Remus tensed, Tonks shrunk and Dumbledore aged like something exposed to the horrors of the world.

“Oh,” Dumbledore breathed quietly and tired. “Oh I am so sorry. Tom, the war is long finished. Grindlewald was arrested many years ago. There are no more bombs to threaten you.”

Tom rolled his neck, cracking it audibly. His collarbone shifted under the parchment of his skin.

“Maybe for you it did.” Tom answered after a pause, tasting the words in his throat like stale bread over a tiring day. “It feels to me that I’ve left one war only to join another. This time, only I am against the world.”

Dumbledore looked downward with a small nod, sighing through his nose. He clutched his cup of tea tightly, the thin wafts of steam trickling upwards.

“I apologize, for all the ways I have failed you.” Dumbledore admitted, “and with that I feel it is of utmost importance to inform you of the situation.”

Tom looked ready to lunge across the room, no weapon be damped, to try and assault his way into solitary confinement.

“You see, Tom.” Dumbledore pressed one old weathered hand to his temple. “You succeeded.”

Tom froze and his blood chilled.

“Albus,” Remus whispered alarmed, unsure.

“I failed you.” Dumbledore confessed to the room. “I failed to address your trauma, your injuries and your requests for aid. I failed you, and you succeeded to become the most feared Dark Lord of all time.”

Tom looked sickly pale, looking ready to vomit once more. “You’re lying.”

Dumbledore smiled thinly, face nearly as gaunt. “No. I’m not. After leaving Hogwarts, you traveled on a crusade and partook in rituals and magics so dark it tainted and befouled you into something hideous. Perhaps you were beyond my hope long before, but I view this as my chance to correct the flaws of my past.”

Tom shook his head jerkily. “I- I do not-.”

“You murdered people.” Harry blurted, the well of rage that he normally did not feel flooded over him and saturated his bones. “You murdered Cedric. You murdered my _parents!”_

Tom kept shaking his head in numb shock.

“You’re a bloody _monster!”_ Harry screamed, jolting to his feet. Tonks grabbed his arm, holding him back.

“I didn’t-.” Tom began, quiet and unsure. Eyes wide and perplexed, disoriented and lost and so very confused. “I _didn’t-.”_

“I am so sorry for you, Tom.” Dumbledore confessed quietly. “For all your pain and suffering. I have ignored you and in your negligence you have suffered far more than anyone should ever.”

Tom reclined back, closing his eyes simply so he didn’t have to look at Dumbledore’s face any more.

His lips were twitching, thin and twitching on his sickly face. Harry was too far away to hear, and the blurry tears in his eyes distorted his vision too much for him to read his lips.

Tonks could read whatever it was, and it left her to exhale in a shaky sob.

Tom made a low noise, something small and hurt. It rose in volume, until it started to warble into something of a scream. It rose and rose into a pitch so high, Harry could feel the hair on his skin crawl and his teeth rumble with the vibrations of it.

Dumbledore waved his wand, whispering words quietly. It must have done something, because Mrs. Weasley and Ron and Hermione and everyone else who sprinted into the room froze just on the threshold of the room.

Tom’s head was tilted back, throat barred and jerking with the viciousness of his voice. Louder and louder, like death throes of a dream now impossible to ever reach.

Tom Riddle _screamed,_ because it was the only thing louder than sobbing.

* * *

 

It was impossible to describe. The level of isolation impossible to ever experience.

You could pack your things and run, take your name and your money and cross countries and continents but you were never truly alone. You would always leave memories behind you, a spiderweb of people who knew your face and your voice who could repeat it fondly or with scorn. You could always return to a place you once knew as home, a place where people would remember you regardless if they wanted to or not.

You had a name, an identity. Proof of your existence through the eyes of the world around you. You were alive, you were alive at one point, you were alive always.

(How excruciatingly isolating it was, to realize that even memories no longer proved your existence.)

There were various philosophical debates on the concept of individuality and existence. The notion that personhood could only be obtained in a specific instances of altering factors. If _X_ and _Y_ are achieved, then a person is indeed, a person.

Tom Riddle had no past, no patron saint to swear his loyalty. No head of house to assure that he was their student, no establishment to claim he belonged. He had no family, no friends who would recognize someone that defied the absolute of time. He had no plans, no ambition that or goals attainable not out of inability, but out of pure _impossibility._

(A person existed if they could _X_ and _Y._ Was Tom a person, when variables were no longer symbolic? When letters were foreign splashes of ink which meant nothing to him, as he meant nothing now to the world?)

Tom sat on the couch, legs curled close to his body as he stared at a wall. Not glancing away even as the house began to thrum with activity. Dumbledore sat there with him, calm and patient. Sipping his third cup of tea. Perhaps if Tom waited long enough, the caffeine would send the man into cardiac arrest.

Tom had no future ambitions. His political route was blocked now by the thoroughly tainted and foreign structure of the ministry. He had worked through the unstable hysteria of wartime politics, the immoral greed of those in powers. If the war was over, then it would be something utterly new. He had no vantage points, no steps along pureblood names to gain height along the social structure. Abraxas may be dead now; he always had that insufferable wheeze. Orion seemed like a distant thought, too scatterbrained to ever be of much use. Where would he be now? Married off and softened with domesticity? Had Cygnus fallen into the madness that claimed his father and his father before that? Would the others have died and moved on without ever considering where Tom had vanished to such a long time ago- a student they once knew in a passing memory.

Where would he go? Where would Tom walk when he had no motivation to step forward?

Tom stared at the wall, and welcomed the tide of black nothingness he normally felt at nights in the muggle world. When the sirens thrummed and the walls shook and he cared so little he didn’t stir from where he slept.

If he was wearing the beads he found on an abandoned prayer bench, he’d twirl them between his fingers in sacrilegious pondering.

What had he brought with him? A bag full of useless muggle objects, his diary and his wand. His trunk was stashed under a shattered staircase, nearly impossible for most to reach. Impossible for anyone to open without a knowing hand on its torn leather fasteners. His books, his research, his potions and schoolwork were all lost to time.

He was alone, abandoned in way so completely different; he believed he were accustomed to isolation but he knew now he was privileged.

“Granted the situation, it seems unfair to withhold you from a proper education.” Dumbledore admitted calmly. “Fortunately, I am now the Headmaster of Hogwarts so your admission into our school is well within my abilities.”

Tom stared at the wall, and wondered when the family that lived here before filled the cracks in its mortar and smoothed it with paint. He wondered how deep the rot of its beams ran, or if they warded it and locked out the bombs like the selfish wizards did to everyone else.

“...It is convenient that you had your wand on you at the time of your appearance.” Dumbledore continued, not caring that Tom had yet to respond. “It is a truly tedious task to find an alternative wand.”

Tom wondered where Dumbledore was, if he stayed in the castle as Tom was locked out of bomb shelters by jeering children.

_Demon! Monster!_

“We will be able to sort you of course, after we have run proper medical tests and other treatment if necessary. It wouldn’t do to have you walking around with injuries.”

_Devil-spawn! Die in the fire devil spawn!_

Tom’s lips moved numbly as he whispered to himself ever so quietly, “Ipse venena bibas. Ipse venena bibas.”

_Ipse venene bibas! Drink the poison yourself! Rid yourself of this child, Satan!_

Tom inhaled slowly and deeply, his chest expanding as he exhaled and thought. “You’re claiming to shelter me although an unmarked individual will never achieve much in the world.”

Dumbledore didn’t look bothered by the statement. “That’s true. It’s fortunate that our friends can claim identity for you. An exchange student, a child seeking asylum from less happier lands.”

Tom didn’t look away from the wall. “A lie. A forgery of identity. I do not exist, I’m nobody.”

_Ipse venena bibas!_

Dumbledore’s fingers shifted on the teacup in his hand. “That may be true. Perhaps use this chance as an opportunity to achieve that which you never could. Use this as redemption. In your religion, if I recall correctly, this may be called redemption.

Tom smiled at the thought. At the old man trying to use the words and chanting carved into his skull from the desperate and the afraid.

The way that candles burned him, how wax made his skin crawl and rosemary and hawthorn made his back _itch._

Would the man use religion against him if he knew the lengths men went in the face of fear? How men found the devil in the body of those who constantly defied.

“Redemption.” Tom tasted the word. It tasted like stomach acid, burning his gums and mixing with blood.

_'No one is as good and merciful as the Lord. But even He does not forgive the unrepentant.'_

Tom would drink Dumbledore’s poison, because he knew not else what to do. A dozen lashes, a cross held in shaking fingers as bombs shook the earth like a roar from some demonic creature.

_‘Please God let me live.’_

“I’ll play your game.” Tom spoke, slowly dragging his eyes from the wall. “Do not mistake me. I do not believe in God or that petty worship.”

A hundred lashes. Spit oil and flame to baptize the monster from his skin. A hundred lashes. Pray until your knees _bled_ and the priest beat the devil out of you.

Dumbledore looked surprised or at least as much as he showed. “Ah, forgive me. I meant no offense, I had mistakenly presumed you were religious in the muggle Catholicism.”

Tom smiled thinly. Any longer, and he would bite his cheek to spill blood down his face. “What tests are you mandating I partake in, _Dumbledore.”_

Dumbledore calmed, looking well versed in this particular path. “Ah, well, we have arrangements to make, Tom.”

Tom Riddle smiled sharply, and wished the collar of thorns on his leg would bleed him dry.

* * *

 

“This is Tom Riddle,” Dumbledore pleasantly introduced to everyone in the Burrow, smiling happily although Tom was succeeding in giving a rather vicious glare just over his shoulder. “Due to unforeseen circumstances, he is our new guest for an undetermined amount of time. I hope you help make him feel welcome, and yes Ginervra I am well aware of his identity. You see, Tom Riddle here is fifteen years old, and through an anomaly he has appeared in our time.”

The twins inhaled in surprise, glancing at each other in delight. Hermione looked alarmed and very worried. Harry could understand that considering all of the drama they experienced with a time turner.

“Tom here comes from when I taught Transfiguration,” Dumbledore chuckled heartily, “what a wonderful time. Due to how our timeline appears to have remained in tact, I believe that this has altered into an alternate existence where information will not destroy our own existence. _However,_ you see, Tom’s older self unfortunately went on to be named an adversary of ours.”

Ginny lunged forward, it was only Tonks’ quick instincts which prevented the younger girl from clawing her nails across Tom’s face. Tom took a half step back almost as fast, carefully remaining out of reach.

“You _monster!”_ Ginny screamed, face turning blotchy and red. “I hope you _die!”_

Ron gaped, Hermione looked stricken. Mrs. Weasley had yet to understand exactly the situation.

“Yes well, that may be a similar interest of many.” Dumbledore admitted in thought. Remus looked pained and ready to leave without acknowledging the elephant in the room.

“He’s Voldemort.” Harry found himself saying, cracking the stick of tension that had developed the moment Dumbledore showed up. “”I mean, he isn’t _yet,_ but he’s Voldemort from _before_ he turned Voldemort.”

“What?” Tom asked quietly, although now faced with a half dozen horrified faces. “Vol de mort? _Theft of death?”_

Dumbledore hummed in thought, “curious. I had always beloved you intended to use the homonym, _flight of death_ sounds much fancier in French, don't you agree?”

Tom’s face quickly changed into carefully restrained desire for manslaughter.

“Harry.” Hermione blurted in stunned confusion, “I...that...you don’t mean that, truly?”

“Err, he is.” Harry uncomfortably confirmed, “I’d recognize that face anywhere.”

“Yeah! Like when you tried to _bloody murder me!”_ Ginny screamed, thrashing in Tonks’ arms.

Tom huffed and soured, “You likely deserved it you gink.”

Ginny’s face twitched slightly at the unfamiliar word before she assumed correctly it was an insult and returned to shrieking.

Dumbledore sighed tiredly, waving one wand with a mutter to silence the room.

“Now then.” He smiled politely, “I understand that Mr. Dolour was here earlier?”

“He quit.” Tonks informed curtly. “Bastard scared him off.”

Remus looked at Tom with a small downwards tilt to his mouth. Tom ignored him.

“Ah, I assumed such would happen.” Dumbledore nodded wisely. “Mr. Dolour was only an investigative referral. It was unlikely he would accomplish much other than providing the name of the professional we’d be best with. Fortunately, I thought ahead once I was informed of the situation and already contacted Madam Dimitriu for her services.”

Remus choked quietly and looked alarmed. “Albus? You contacted _Crina Dimitriu?”_

Dumbledore blinked innocently, “why, of course. I thought a spectacular occasion would warrant a spectacular woman.”

“Wonderful.” Tom drawled although it sounded aggressive, “another mediwitch?”

“Of course not.” Dumbledore chuckled fondly, “she’s a mindhealer and practitioner of high regard. Merlin knows, she’s ever so fascinated with my stories of Fawkes!”

Tom grimaced and glanced away quickly.

“What about Hogwarts?” Mrs. Weasley interjected worriedly. “I know the holidays merely just started but I can’t help but be concerned-.”

“Do not worry, Molly.” Dumbledore soothed, “If necessary, I will provide guardianship over Tom-.”

“ _No you wouldn’t dare!”_

“-and provide the required mentoring he sorely needs.” Dumbledore assured calmly. “I believe he will need no further monitoring after a gentle summer break. Although I do believe a shopping venture is sorely required.”

The amount of rage on Tom’s face could not be contained. He looked ready to lunge, to scream and try and murder Dumbledore with his hands alone. Harry took a step back, already shaken by the unfathomable display of anger and hatred. The fireplace thrummed and the kitchen area was even more cramped with the emergence of Moody once more.

“Ah, wonderful timing.” Albus beamed. “Off you go, Alastor will be escorting you to Diagon for necessities.”

“Wait, _now?”_ Mrs. Weasley squeaked in alarm, “oh dear! I have things to-.”

“Don’t worry about it, Molly.” Tonks beamed, finally releasing the seething Ginny to bump into Remus’ side. “We’ll take the squirt.”

“I’ll come too.” Harry blurted suddenly, “er, I wanted to visit my vault.”

“But mate-.” Ron started, only for Moody to cut him off.

“Great! Let’s get going then.” Moody grumbled, using his cane to shove Harry away and towards the fireplace, “nice and easy. Quicker we do this the less painful it is.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Tom gritted out in a low seething voice. He looked like he was being escorted to trial, the only thing he was missing was the shackles.

They marched into the fire, barely having enough time to prepare.

* * *

 

Diagon was busy at noon. The summer events weren’t yet in full swing, the patio furniture wasn’t outside and the fountains weren’t flowing. The traffic was less, but still active enough that witnesses were around.

Tom looked around quickly, calm if not for the frantic gleam in his eyes. Windows were new, stores were vacant or painted in bright foreign colours advertising things uncommon. The cobblestone was clean, the sky didn’t glimmer with bomb repelling wards. It felt like a dream.

“You er, okay?” Harry asked unsure. He knew deep in his gut the strange level of culture shock. He could almost feel the nausea that was twisting the other teens stomach, leaving him cramping with anxiety.

“...I’m fine.” Tom clipped out abruptly, harshly with how vibrant and joyous the day was. The air smelled clean, a small smell of baking bread drifted down from further up the alley. It was still a bit cold enough to wear a slight jacket. Tom had only the shirt Harry brought him, hanging off him wrongly.

“First up, clothing.” Remus skirted the three towards the closest clothing store, not Madam Malkins but something cheaper. They were on the Order’s budget after all, they had to make due. Tonks and Moody stuck outside, leaning against the doorway imposingly. Tom huffed so quietly Harry wasn’t sure anyone else noticed it.

The woman at the register looked alarmed by Tom’s state, or maybe by the clothing he was wearing. His shoes weren’t even proper, instead they were charmed to be bigger so they wouldn't fall off. In moments the poor woman had run off for the manager, looking overwhelmed with the situation.

The manager emerged, and looked just as frazzled as the attendant before.

“Hello, we’re looking for a full wardrobe.” Remus smiled although it looked pained. “Complete.”

“Oh,” the manager gaped over a second, swallowing quickly, “ah...house fire, dear?”

Tom’s yellowish waxy skin and slight bloodshot hue to his eye suggested anything other than a house fire. He didn’t dignify her with an answer.

“Of course,” She nodded, shaken by his cold dismissal. “We have various sizes, arranged by sizes and style of course. Do you know your size-.”

“Fatigue jacket. 34 long.” He clipped out sharply.

Harry, Remus, and the manager blinked at the foreign sizing. Tom exhaled through his nose, shouldered past them, and began snatching things without care.

It an unnecessarily long time to find something that fit decently, didn’t cling so tightly it emphasized the unnatural shape of his ribcage, and to argue that his boots should not be a size larger than his actual foot size.

Harry felt thoroughly exhausted by the time Remus and Tom managed to get in a spitting match over the necessity of multiple jackets. Merlin have mercy for however Tom Riddle did his casual shopping.

The shirts they managed to settle on did fit better, although Remus informed that he was looking around Sirius’ house for old outdated clothing that may fit better. Donations were better than nothing, and nobody saw the point to give Tom a dozen different shirts to wear when he arrived wearing clearly stolen garments.

They stormed out of the store with significantly less money than when they went in. It didn’t seem like too much for Harry, but having lived with the Weasleys for a while he had grown used to the standard monetary funds for purchases.

“Bookstore.” Moody grumbled, jerking his head to another secondhand store. Harry hadn’t ever been inside, but Tom followed without another word. Harry noted that Tom and Tonks really _really_ did not seem to get along.

They had free reign once inside; Tom practically bolted into the forest of shelves and cobwebs. Harry couldn’t even blame him.

Moody stayed near the front, but Remus and Tonks slipped to the sides to watch and follow him down the rows.

Something about it felt wrong, it felt disgustingly so. Harry couldn’t place it, but it made him feel like peeling off his skin. The blatant distrust, the lack of regard over Tom’s own ability to shop.

Tom was in a new place, a new _world_ with no wand or allies. Why was he under such a harsh guard? Why was he being escorted around like a prisoner? Sure _Voldemort_ had done horrible things, but this was _Tom Riddle,_ someone who apparently was randomly thrown into a pool filled with sharks. It felt wrong to treat him like this. It felt wrong to make him believe he was the enemy in another war.

Harry steadied his breath, then followed down the path of the book store Tom took.

It took a while to find him, and when he did Tom was pressing his forehead to one of the shelves. Harry couldn’t place any of the titles of the books, some in a completely different language while others were in runic forms. Harry didn’t understand, but something about Tom’s posturing looked very vulnerable.

“...What books are you looking for?” Harry offered, breaking the quiet. The shelves creaked a little, the lights buzzed with a huff of gas through piping.

Tom inhaled with a rattling noise, peeking one eye open with a glazed look. “Why are you following me.”

It was deadpan and curt, and Harry felt very guilty.

He cleared his throat quietly, and stuck one of his hands out awkwardly. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. My names Harry Potter, and uh, you’re Tom Riddle.”

Tom looked at him from the corner of his eye. “Most presume I go by Voldemort.”

Harry kept his hand outstretched. “Do you?”

A creak of the shelves, then Tom pulled away from where he leaned against the bookshelves, eyes scanning over the titles and names of the books.

“They’re different.” Tom muttered in lieu of his name, nodding towards the spines facing them. “It doesn’t seem like it, but I checked. If it was only English titles then it would be an ordering choice, but other languages are different. Censored.”

Harry squinted at one book that looked like like doodles than letters. “Er...you read this?”

“Yes.” Tom bit out curtly, trailing a bruised finger along the books. “French. Latin. Passable in Gaelic, I can read Coptic and Arabic. A few others. These books are all censored by the Ministry. You had a purge.”

Moody appeared at the end of the row, although Tonks and Remus were still out of sight.

“Eh! Looking for texts already?” Moody asked with a satisfied snarl, drawing his wand in a blatant threat.

“Your government is a worried one, isn’t it.” Tom muttered instead, tapping on something that was clearly Latin. “What else is outlawed now. Livestock rearing? _Knitting?”_

“Brat.” Moody seethed, muttering something which flashed and suddenly Tom was buckling. His left leg twitching visibly. Tom _growled,_ and Harry found himself feeling sick once more.

“Pick your bloody books.” Moody spat, scarred remnants of his nose upturning, “we’re leaving soon you Death Eater scum.”

Tom said nothing, his leg kept jerking. Once Moody passed around the corner, Harry reached down to help Tom upright.

“I’m _fine!”_ Tom hissed lowly, visibly limping as he forced himself further into the lines of text, yanking what appeared to be random books off the shelf. “Leave me _alone.”_

“What were you looking for?” Harry asked awkwardly. Tom looked at him skeptic, on the verge of ignoring him again.

For some reason, the boy found something in Harry’s honest question. His hand twitched around the two books in his arms, but he spoke nonetheless.

“Sections on magical theory are removed.” Tom explained bluntly. “Light magic theory and environmental remains. Mental and dark magical theory aren’t here anymore.”

Harry had never _heard_ about mental magical theory. Dark magic was...dark magic. Things that murdered people.

“If you open your mouth and say something based off biased opinion instead of fact, I am sorely tempted to throw this book at your face.” Tom snapped out impatiently.

Harry blinked quickly, “err, sorry. I uh, I thought dark magic hurt people. I didn’t know that there was magical theory behind it.”

Tom’s shoulders trembled with the force of his irritated breathing. “Lord forgive me. Why can I not escape utter ridiculous government propaganda. What have I done to deserve this.”

“A lot,” Harry impulsively blurted. “You did say you killed a rabbit.”

Tom closed his eyes and spoke very slowly. “Harry Potter. I have a feeling, that you are going to be a truly exemplar _prick_ in my side.”

“Oh,” Harry very wisely said, “you really don’t want to know.”

Tom made a small noise of dismissal, grabbed another nearby book and stomped dramatically to the front of the store. He was still limping.

Harry didn’t think the cursing was justified.

(Tom hadn’t done anything to deserve it.)

* * *

 

Maybe in a few years if someone asked Harry to look back on it, and to say when things changed, he would say this.

There were a lot of moments that people remembered. Things or quirks about people you always fondly talked about. A tone of their laugh, the way their eyes lit up. Maybe the sound of their screaming, or the first time you heard them cry.

When Harry thought about _Tom Riddle,_ he thought he’d think of the high pitched screaming; of a basilisk chasing him with intent to feast. He thought he’d recall the bone deep fear, the terror that made his teeth rattle.

But he didn’t think that anymore. Sometimes there were moments which stuck out more than any emotion or sight. A quiet isolating event or something shared that impacts you like a knife between the ribs. Something you could explain but when put in words it became meaningless, like ash on your tongue.

Tom Riddle sat on the ground, dirtying his new clothes on the floor of a vault layered with thick dust. Not a coin or bauble in sight. The gentle rise and fall of his breathing echoed over everything he now owned; nothing.

Harry didn’t know how to explain it. When he thought of Tom Riddle, he thought of a thin boy kneeling in a future where he had lost everything from the very start.

* * *

 

They returned back to the house, a bundle of bags and books that meant nothing. A sign of knowledge that now promised nothing but a distraction from time. A way to avoid life itself.

The household was sharp and tense, the atmosphere had darkened and dampened into something sour. Dinner was rapidly approaching, and Tom snuck away to the room assigned as his like a fox hiding in a badgers den. He didn’t emerge, instead he stuck to the small stool in the corner with his newly acquired book and ignored the world around him. His door was lodged open, Harry was partially impressed Moody hadn’t simply removed the door from the hinges. Nobody really followed him yet, not when the imposing mystery lady would arrive later that evening to meet Tom. A highly qualified mindhealer for a highly troubled case.

“If you’re going to stare.” Tom murmured lowly from his place in the corner, small and unassuming. “‘You best do it out of my line of sight. It’s distracting.”

Harry felt alarmed that his staring was that obvious, but then he felt that was one of the politest things Tom had ever told him.

“Sorry,” Harry apologized just to break the atmosphere. “The book is interesting.”

Tom didn’t look up from the book. “This is Latin. You don’t know Latin.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, “maybe I do?”

Tom peered over the book at him with a bored expression. “ _Matulae.”_

Harry blinked at the foreign word, “er, pardon?”

“A pot.” Tom translated bluntly. “Or rather, a vessel for liquids. I’m sure you identify with it quite well. Also translated as blockhead.”

Harry flushed and scratched the back of his neck. “Are you going to use Latin just to insult me?”

“No, I also use it to explain how I take my tea.” Tom deadpanned sourly. “ _Leave.”_

Harry felt suitably embarrassed but also rather curious. It was an interesting sort of conversation, or dialect that Tom seemed to use without pause. A struggle to understand some articulations or reasons behind why he structured a sentence the way he did, but it was fascinating. It reminded Harry of a few conversations with Hermione, interspersed with the blatant humour of Ron when he was tired.

“You mentioned something about dark magic theory.” Harry felt like he was butchering the explanation already despite having said nothing at all. “I’ve never heard about it.”

Tom looked ready to groan. He closed his eyes and lifted one hand from the book to press against his temple. “If you’re asking me to educate you, you’ll ask proper or ask not at all.”

Harry felt properly scolded; almost embarrassed by the informal approach.

“Er, sorry.” Harry winced at his own apology. “...Could you ah...educate me?”

Tom stared at him bored. Harry felt the urge to throw on a ‘Sir?’ afterwards.

“You really are a blockhead.” Tom deadpanned with a sigh. “Light and Dark magic theory. You understand that some styles of magic require different techniques to properly use. Basic introductory spells mandate proper annunciation and wand movements while others require intent and focus.”

Harry visibly brightened. “Like the Patronus charm! Yeah, you need to use a happy memory for that but there isn’t really a wand movement.”

Tom looked _surprised._ He closed his book, setting it to the side to give Harry his full attention. For some reason, it felt very important.

“...yes.” Tom admitted slowly, cautiously. His eyes flickered to the doorway for a second before back at Harry. His head tilted ever so slightly, interested. “The patronus charm is a difficult spell which is heavily inclined towards light magical theory. Do you know why?”

Harry’s mind blanked. “Because you...need to be happy?”

“A moron,” Tom mused contently, “you are an absolute moron. _No_ you daft cobblestone. Light magic theory applies internal emotional processes into external effect. The patronus charm requires you to experience joy and then externalizes it.”

Harry was suddenly aware that his jaw was dropped.

“...what?” He asked, dazed.

Tom looked at him in disbelief. “Light magic theory and the tie to emotions. You must be bloody- you surely know _that._ There was a lesson on it in my second year.”

“I have never heard that before in my entire life.” Harry admitted uncomfortably. “Light magic has to do with your emotions?”

“No no,” Tom groaned quietly, more in disbelief over the situation, “light magic theory externalizes your emotions. Dark magic theory conjures or creates emotions based on environment. They’re inverse of one another- have you _never_ heard of this?”

Harry shook his head, and Tom stared at the Latin book in dismay.

“...What are the regulations on dark magic artifacts?” Tom asked suddenly, shifting the topic abruptly.

Harry’s mind scrambled. “Err...in my second year they were going to a few pureblood houses to search for illegal artifacts?”

Tom inhaled heavily through his nose. “The names of the houses. The old houses or all pureblood estates? The London ones or also the country homes?”

Harry scrambled, “I...I don’t know? Draco got- err- the Malfoy’s had their house searched. I don’t know what they found but I know a lot of people were complaining about it.”

Tom stared at a wall, and didn’t look away. “Abraxas would have argued. The Wizengamot would _never_ have...he...what about the other families. The Blacks, Lestranges. Rowle.”

Harry struggled with the position he was in. How do you tell a young Dark Lord that all the families he knew were either insane, imprisoned, or wanted by the law for various shady dealings.

“Er...they’re in jail I think.” Harry tried to remember. “Lestrange is. Azkaban.”

“The _‘ell?”_ The low brass cockney emphasized just how stunned Tom was.

“Yeah.” Harry grimace, “there’s a lot of uh, illegal dark magic going around. It’s hurt a lot of people and now there’s laws to prevent people from being hurt.”

Tom stared at Harry, his face impossible to read. There was something in his eyes, an exhaustion that was so deep Harry couldn’t explain it if he tried.

“No, Potter.” Tom sighed, looking very very tired, “this is war propaganda.”

* * *

 

_Before._

* * *

 

The bombs didn’t drop during the day. The Zeppelins and planes stayed away in the morning hours, when the overcast sky and dull sun would light up the destruction from the night before. The sunlight was security from a foreign threat, and the start of a domestic one.

The streets that weren’t as destroyed always filled quickly with the people that remained. The people with money and vouchers, the tickets for food and clothing and the vanity that came with it. They were the ones that the police would still come for, the areas where the muggings and theft didn’t frequent. It was also the area where Tom was most likely to be caught, to be thrown to the side for _abandoning_ the cause. He was young, but he looked older.

Tom slid sideways, pressing against a few of the houses with walls still in tact. The air smelled like ash, a wet mildew smell from the fires in the night that were put out with sewage water. It was nearly harder to find freshwater than it was to fine safety.

Tom walked, ignoring the chill in the air. His coat was fine, it wouldn’t need to be patched for a while still. His boots on the other hand were starting to fall apart, the stitching decayed from the days they spent under compost. He’d need new ones soon or he’d risk something much worse.

Tom glanced upwards with a frown. He couldn’t see it, but ever since the disaster with the opposing front a ward had been placed up. A safety net and a call for surrender all at once. Tom couldn’t ever see it, but he could feel it thrum under his skin. Under the bloodied bits of his nails. Sure, the trace on him removed itself once he came of age but in the war-zone, all magic could be detected. Since the murdering, the explosions of fire and Germans, all magic was to be illegal in muggle populated zones. Cast a spell under the ward of war, and lose your finger to the agony of ministry caliber magic.

Lose a finger, or lose both feet to rot. The choice was alluring, and he knew the spell to locate the recently dead. The corpses that were still warm.

(He hadn’t done magic in a while, not even when the rattling bombs made him flinch. A finger or his feet. A finger or his feet.)

Tom kept walking, scuffing his boots on the dusty plaster that rained down from a broken building. Soon the churches would fall, their delicate stained glass would shower them with hail. Tom wondered if the planes had targets in mind during the night, or if they let their explosions rain like hellfire with no cause.

Tom kept walking, a small bit of cobblestone rattled. He heard a cough, a wet one filled with phlegm or mucus. Tom was interested immediately.

It was hard to navigate the bombing zones, where a single step could mean your last. Bits of exposed metal could pierce your leg and infect you. Rats could scurry free with the madness that left them frothing. Fires sometimes never stopped burning in the core; shifted rubble would send it ablaze. It was a dangerous life for the urchins of the world. Tom hadn’t the chance to bathe in a while now.

He located the coughing, a man who had chosen to sleep in a random house. It was struck, and Tom ignored how the likelihood of he being in the same situation increased every night. The man had rubble on him, splintered wood piercing his skin and clothing. It too, was fraying on the edges.

Tom walked in the remnants of the house, mindful of the broken glass on the floor. He would have taken any bottles of drink the man had hoarded, his throat was parched.

The man wheezed, glancing at him tiredly. Blood on his face, internal bleeding then. He’d die soon.

The man said something, gibberish to Tom’s starving mind. It took a second for Tom to think, to associate sounds with words and meanings.

“Le français?” Tom asked, slurring a little on the language. The man wheezed again, voice deep and wet.

“Parlez vous français?” The man gurgled out, accent in his mother-tongue unmistakable.

Tom breathed in the ash and plaster in the air and shifted his language to another he learned out of necessity. _“Yes, I do.”_

The man laughed, amused beyond words. His skin was waxy and shiny, he looked old but not so old grey could speckle his hair yet.

 _“How special am I,”_ The man wheezed out, hand sifting and curling in the sawdust at his side, _“to have company on my deathbed.”_

Tom eyed him carefully, looking around the small shelter the man had spent the last night in. _“I like your boots.”_

The man wiggled his feet, the relatively undamaged shoes scuffed the floor. _“Bah, they’re yours once I’m dead.”_

Tom nodded, and settled himself on the floor. It wasn’t safe to be out during the day when the crime started.

The man wheezed, and Tom started searching through his bag. It was easier to take inventory during the sunlight, even when his bag was as deep as it was.

 _“What have you got?”_ The man asked him, voice wetter than before.

 _“Nothing for you.”_ Tom deadpanned, and ignored the man.

The sun moved overhead, the shadows stretched. Tom wondered if the man’s jacket would fit him, maybe he should take it too.

 _“You not go to war, boy?”_ The man asked, slurring but still comprehensible.

 _“Too young.”_ Tom responded curtly.

 _“Ah,”_ The french man nodded understandingly, _“street rat. Smart to stay out of sight. Dangerous during the day.”_

 _“Dangerous during the nights.”_ Tom countered lazily, not paying the man any thought.

 _“Dangerous always,”_ the man cackled, pausing to heave and retch. He had eaten something, it made his vomit less watery and more grey than yellow. Tom would have to search to find whatever food he had stashed. _“Dangerous world.”_

Tom ignored him and kept taking inventory. He’d need to find water soon; the canal was too rancid to bother with but the stench may have kept people from the near houses.

 _“Dangerous dangerous world.”_ the Frenchman mumbled to himself. _“Fled here, France too dangerous even for a poor Frenchman like myself.”_

Maybe the man had water hidden around here somewhere, jars of it or an area he cleansed it of worms.  

_“Terrible thing, war.”_

_“Good and evil always fight.”_ Tom retorted lazily, ready to recite bible passages that had been shoved down his throat. He could recite them easily, even before the war. Spoken over and over so many times his throat had paper-cuts and his lips were red like the flesh of an apple.

 _“No!”_ The man laughed as if Tom’s words were particularly funny. _“I have seen monsters, but they wear many faces, boy. No such thing as good and evil in this world, no such thing.”_

Tom tilted his head slightly, the mad ramblings were of a curious sort. _“What then? What of the front and the soldiers in battle? Who are we fighting?”_

The Frenchman's eyes were glazed, his breathing irregular and strained. _“Not evil, and we are not good. Only power for men, and we fight for it because we are strong enough for it.”_

Tom hummed and watched as the man started to shiver, whispering to himself over and over. _“Only power...power and those too weak...weak to seek it.”_

Tom ignored him, and gave him the decency of privacy when he died. Tom removed the jacket and his boots as the death rattles still shook his body; before his muscles stiffened and he became as hard as cobblestone.

Tom huffed as he noticed the jacket wasn’t the right size, it would only get in the way. He draped it over the man’s face, another casualty that people would forget. The rats would feast on him now, and maybe in the eyes of starvation someone would feast on the rats.

Tom took his boots; he was right, they were his size.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!](https://discord.gg/SVrMbMS)


	3. Angels are bright still, although the brightest fell.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where one prison is exchanged for another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, exams got to me and then winter sunk into my skull a little too cruelly. Here we go, it's a bit shorter but this chapter was late anyways.  
> Happy Holidays everyone, and a good New Year

The walls of 12 Grimmauld place were bleak, old peeling wallpaper and a faint musk of mildew.

The house had been recently fixed, scrubbed and cleaned to the best of their ability. Tom could tell, from the faint smell of cleaner in the air and the way the floor slipped under his socks. If he traced his fingers on the walls, he knew he’d feel where the paper started to flake from amateur brushing.

Tom sat in his room, a glorified prison cell, and had his eyes closed. The clothes given to him fit, everything else was supplied with a thinly held barb for the concept of  _ freedom.  _ It was stabbing close to the life Tom had forcibly left behind him. Out of one prison cell into another. He wondered when boredom would haunt him. He wondered when he’d need to start hiding tins of spam under his mattress. 

“So,” Sirius spoke, exhaling heavily through his nose. He was sitting backwards on a chair, one hand propping his chin up. “You’re looking good for a monster.”

Tom’s face twitched, he didn’t dignify the man with a formed expression.

The sheets on the bed were soft, luxury compared to what he was used to. His wand was still absent, as were his boots. He wasn’t overly attached to them anyways.

His books were stacked on the nearby table, a converted sewing table that had been combed through for needles or scissors. Nothing Tom could ever use as a weapon,  _ god forbid  _ Tom be let loose with a  _ needle. _

His thigh stung under the bite of metal. His palms itched from the unfamiliar soap that his body was not used to. It didn’t burn like lye, it was softer and dainty.

“How much longer are you going to lock me up?” Tom asked, a low flat murmur that barely resounded in the room.

Sirius watched and felt a small anxious cough disguised as a laugh. “So, you speak.”

Tom opened his eyes very slowly. Sirius’ face twitched into something like a grin.

“Well, what do you know.” Sirius huffed out, “your eyes aren’t all snake face.”

Tom’s face remained blank. He distantly considered spitting some meaningless words out in parseltongue but the effort was beyond him.

Sirius shifted on the chair, it scraped slightly.

“Alright kid.” Sirius started with a small cough, “so err...Albus is out getting some medical witch I think. I was here to make sure you didn’t…”

Tom cracked his knuckle quietly. “What. Go on a rampage? Attack you with a sugar spoon?”

Sirius grimaced slightly. “Merlin, you’re not allowed in the kitchen. Or anywhere with knives.  _ Bollocks,  _ I need to check the loo…”

Tom snorted and rolled his eyes with enough force his head shifted slightly. “Are you going to let me out or not.”

Sirius stood, the chair scraped. He walked towards the door- showing his back to Tom. Tom made no movement, and with a low spell the lock clicked open.

“Alright, have at it.” Sirius beckoned with a small scoff of frustration. Tom stood, his trousers brushing over his blankets with a soft noise. His thigh stung.

“Are you going to escort me around?” Tom asked tonelessly, walking past Sirius without looking back. “Escort me like a prison guard?”

“Pretty wordy, aren’t you?” Sirius retorted.

Tom said nothing more. He investigated the hallway curiously, opening the unlocked doors to peer in with blank expressions. He didn’t cringe at the dusty closets filled with cobwebs; at the moth eaten sheets and old rotten brooms. Tom had a remarkably accepting expression when faced with an infestation of roaches under one floorboard.

He kept walking, investigating until he knew the rooms on the same floor. With how isolated Tom was from the rest of the building, the only surprise he encountered was a large spoiled Hippogriff squawking at him the moment he walked in.

Tom uttered one of those curses, the low whimsical one that made Sirius gawk and cackle at the unexpected accent. Buckbeak wasn’t amused, instead Tom for a small moment faced a very real probability of being maimed.

“ _ Ssshite!”  _ Tom Riddle spat out, ducking low and stumbling out of the room. The twang was still audible, distorting on what may have been a stutter or some sort of speech impediment. Buckbeak roared at him, feathers flaring in anger. Tom shrieked back nearly as loud: “ _ Gormless cack!” _

Sirius wheezed, and forgot how to breathe.

Tom’s face was ugly, the bright flush on his cheekbones only highlighted the shadows under his eyes.  

“Watch out,” Sirius smirked, wide eyed and all teeth, “I’ve got a Hippogriff.”

Tom’s breathes were heaving, his grin in response was nothing but feral teeth.

* * *

“Is it safe to have him out in public?”  Hermione whispered, watching Tom over the top of her book.

“Er…” Ron trailed off, glancing up from his chess set he was putting up a valiant battle against. “I...don’t think so?”

“Padfoot is here.” Harry pointed out quietly, trying not to stare too much. “He wouldn’t put us in any harm.”

“Are you…. _ sure?”  _ Hermione whispered back worriedly.

“You all are aware,” Tom Riddle spoke from across the room, staring at the book in his long bruised fingers, “That you whisper very loudly. And I have very little patience left today.”

“He’s a bit grouchy.” Sirius added in, “he met Buckbeak earlier.”

“That  _ hellbeast,”  _ Tom snarled out quietly, voice mumbled slightly from behind his book. “Should be  _ shot.” _

“Testy.” Sirius rolled his eyes, pulling out his wand to play mindlessly with sparks he conjured.

“Is that…” Hermione’s voice rose in pitch to a near squeak, “...safe? Couldn’t he steal your wand?”

“Eh?” Sirius blinked in surprise. “ _ Him?  _ I bloody hope not.”

Tom made a noise that couldn’t have been disguised; indignant sputtering was always understandable.

“Padfoot would stop anything.” Ron grunted, shifting one protesting chest piece. “Or just bite him. Like  _ that one time.” _

“I said I was sorry.” Sirius defended with a playful huff. “But no, I doubt we’re compatible.”

“Compatible?” Hermione perked up curiously, “like how a wand chooses a wizard?”

Tom lowered his book with a look of outright disgust. “How are you all so daft you dismiss the most  _ basic information? _ Oh, my  _ mistake,  _ you’re country has simply burned and destroyed historical information because you’re being run by  _ incompetent oafs.” _

“Wow,” Sirius sighed with a small twitch of his cheek, “I wish you had said that with your adorable little accent.”

Tom’s face was impressively, composed.

“Wands do not  _ choose the wizard,”  _ Tom snarled out viciously, personally offended by the slights and misinformation shared in the room. “Our magical cores are shaped through our experiences and are attuned to us personally. You can’t just  _ use someone else's wand.” _

“What.” Ron blinked with wide eyes, mouth dropping into a small gape. “Why the hell not? I’ve done it all the time.”

Tom looked ready to storm off.

“You blow up.” Sirius interjected with a slightly disappointed sigh. “It’s uh...a bit more obvious with...certain magic types. If...say, Malfoy were to use your mum’s wand, I reckon the ferret would lose his entire damn arm.”

Ron tried to resist smiling, he failed.

“But if you used your brothers wand, you likely wouldn’t have anything happen. It depends on blood relation a fair bit, and the type of magic you’ve used more.”

“I doubt any of your wands would react appropriately to me.” Tom sniped out sourly, flipping a page in his book. “And not due to your irritating misconceptions over  _ light and dark magic,  _ my magical core and channeling is superior to any of your wand’s capabilities.”

Ron soured and jerked his chin out. “Oi! Prove it then you shite!”

Tom snapped his book shut. Sirius looked ready to intervene. 

“Do you think me a  _ fool?”  _ Tom spat back sourly, eyes burning with the level of his frustrations. “You think i am unaware of my positioning? I have nothing to prove to you, you blood traitor.”

Sirius tilted his head with a small frown. “No, actually...there’s some weight to it. Here.”

Then, much to Harry’s horror, Sirius flipped his wand around and offered it to Tom handle first.

The room chilled, Hermione’s breathing stopped. Tom stilled.

“...you’re not being cute, Black.” Tom spoke lowly. 

“I know.” Sirius responded sharply. “I want to test this. Shoot sparks, and if you do anything else, I’ll tear out your throat and be done with you.”

Tom inhaled slowly through his nose. He reached out, and took Sirius’ wand in his left hand.

He held it daintily, the wand seeming small in his loose grip. Pale skin, cautious eyes.

“Periculum.” Tom spoke smoothly, voice shifting into something more fluid as clearly  _ Latin-  _ and with a muffled  _ Bang!  _ Red sparks shot from the end of the wand.

Almost instantaneously, Tom jerked his head back and gave a low hiss of pain. Strained and wheezed, hitched breath from between locked jaws. 

Sirius jumped slightly the moment his wand clattered to the ground, bouncing slightly on the floor boards.

Tom didn’t look at his hand, he stared forward at the wall. His nostrils flared ever so slightly, in pace with the controlled heavy breathing.

His left hand flexed, slowly uncoiling to slide as subtly as he could towards his book again. Visible, even across the room, his hand smoked dark grey tendrils. Thick blisters were bubbling, a small odor of charred meat.

“That’s what happens when you have incompatible magic.” Sirius chirped out, plucking his wand from the floor. Tom’s face didn’t shift. A thin trail of blood was twisting down his wrist, hiding under his sleeve.

For the first time, Hermione had nothing to say. 

* * *

 

The front door opened with a soft creak and the unmistakable sound of Albus Dumbledore. Following after, the sharp clicking of heels on wooden flooring.

Tom Riddle hoped dearly, that there was another individual; he feared the day Albus Dumbledore discovered stilettos.

Voices became louder, and from the stairwell two people emerged.

“Headmaster!” Harry grinned breathlessly, Ron looking up with a grunt. Hermione smiled weakly, relieved that a symbol of stability had returned somewhat.

“Oh,” Sirius spoke, the word falling out of his mouth like a deer stumbling over ice. “ _ Oh no.” _

Tom quietly scanned his eyes over the woman trailing behind the headmaster. She couldn’t have been too old; she has the marks of age no amount of potions or skin treatments could ever remove. Thin and unassuming, but physical stature meant little in the world of magic.

“Ah,” Albus chuckled softly, “I see you recognize our esteemed guest.”

Sirius backpedaled, wordlessly floundering before he gave a small  _ meep. _

Well, that was quite interesting.

“Sirius Black,” the woman spoke, a slight accent on her words although her English was flawless. Something rounded and articulated differently- Belgian? Romanian perhaps?

Sirius crumpled in on himself, the woman didn’t smile.

“Escaped convict, detained in Azkaban for a marvelous amount of time. I presume you spent such time in hiding,” she rattled off with a small quirk in her tone. “Impressive, perhaps I should invite you for dinner?”

Harry gaped, and Sirius  _ paled. _

“Oh, don’t tease the boy too much.” Albus chuckled lowly, “I’m afraid he may run away from you.”

“Or chew off his leg in desperation to escape.” The woman responded smoothly and calmly. “I assume I require no introductions, however for the sake of dramatics I may as well. I’m Crina Dimitriu, dragged away from my work due to Albus’ pleading.”

Tom did not like this woman, by the way Sirius Black ( an escaped  _ convict? _ ) flinched away from her.

“I’ve heard quite a bit about you, Mr. Black,” Crina continued calmly. “Word spreads at my work. Unfortunately, I wasn’t bribed,  _ nor paid  _ to attend to your madness.”

Crina Dimitriu turned around, she was wearing tall heels under her rather unremarkable clothing; trousers and a conservative robe.

“Mr. Riddle, I presume.” She spoke. Eyes sharp but ordinary. On further glance, her facial shape led him to hesitantly associate her with Romanian ancestry. “We have an appointment.”

* * *

The room vacated- Sirius Black all too eager to escape. Quickly, Ron, Hermione, and Harry also left under Albus Dumbledore’s calm beckons. The living room door slid closed, separating the fairly large room from the rest of the house.

“Well, that was exhausting.” Crina sighed, using her hand to wipe the dust off one of the chairs. It puffed in the air, wafting around softly.

Tom watched her with a small frown. His hand stung, his thigh throbbed. 

The door slid open, Albus popping his head in once again. “Ah, the wine you requested.”

Crina crossed one leg over her knee, “Thank you, Albus dear. I certainly hope it is from the vineyard you specified. I would have fetched it myself if not for your so  _ timely  _ invitation. How unfortunate you interrupted me, an old habit of yours I believe.”

Albus shifted ever so slightly uncomfortable, levitating the bottle across the room. Tom noticed how it was faintly blue, a deep azure that wasn’t anything he recognized. Perhaps glass companies changed with the time period as well. “Ah, I apologize, Crina dear. I assure you I will make it worth your time.”

Crina’s eyes focused on Tom, even as she retrieved the bottle from the air and began to trace her fingernails along the cork stopper. “I doubt you have anything to provide me, Albus, that will be worth my time. The only worthwhile opportunity is currently trying to determine why I’m here. Tom Riddle, I believe. And I rarely forget names.”

Tom’s face twitched ever so slightly at the sudden attentive eyes on his face.

“How unfortunate,” Tom began, wetting his lips, “that I care so little for yours.”

She tilted her head ever so slightly, not seeming surprised or offended with his barb. “How wonderful to hear.” She responded politely, “I do hate wasting time talking about hobbies of no interest. Since you’ve helpfully defined our dynamic already, you’ve determined our topic of approach. It seems there’s a discussion to be had, Mr. Riddle.”

Tom’s eyes widened slightly, Albus exhaled with a wheeze.

“Ah, yes.” Albus Dumbledore shifted slightly, “Crina, you may discuss-.”

“Although Mr. Riddle is under the age of adulthood, you are not his guardian or legal representative.” Crina coolly interjected, “as such, he is not your responsibility nor is he your charge. Our discussions are confidential, Albus dear. They’re also in no way able to be influenced by yourself, or I may as well return home to work on my book.”

Albus Dumbledore’s jaw snapped shut, he looked suitably chastised.

“Ah, my mistake.” He began, pausing a small moment. “Forgive me. Shout if ah...my presence is needed.”

Albus ducked out of the door and closed it quietly. Crina gave a small sigh, pulling out a thin wand to tap against the wine bottle. It magically opened, the cork unraveling. From the bag she brought with her, she pulled out a crystal stemmed glass. Tom watched in hidden confusion as she poured herself a modest glass of the dark red liquid.

“As I briefly stated,” she began calmly, “your unique status as nonexistent equates to my…. _ forgetful  _ oversight of laws concerning liability to your guardian. Your actions in no way affect others, and I operate under no obligation to disclose information regardless of content or intent. You are neither of majority, or minority. You do not exist, and I hardly see the need to mention this failure to Albus.”

She finally glanced up, pulling another crystal glass from her bag. “Wine? You are, after all, not an age.”

Tom gave the briefest of nods, so thoroughly overwhelmed he couldn’t think of a way to counter the strange persona of this woman.

“Excellent.” She hummed, flicking her wand with the barest whispers of spells. “Funny, isn’t it? I know two offensive spells and another dozen for opening and sealing bottles of wine depending on content.” She rolled her eyes in annoyance, “chardonnay requires a...less  _ forceful  _ touch.”

She flicked her wand and spoke, sending the crystal glass levitating to Tom’s side. He plucked it with his right hand, holding it daintily. Crina hadn’t a sip yet, and he was no fool to drink before she had.

“Tell me, Mr. Riddle, where am I from?” Crina asked flatly.

Tom swirled the glass slightly. “Romania.”

She nodded without any sign of disapproval. “Romanian magical education is divided into specialized fields determined on profession. In my youth, I decided to investigate mind magics more thoroughly.”

Tom stiffened ever so slightly. “Legilimency is a difficult art.”

Crina smiled, a thin upwards quirk of her lip that was hidden a second later by her sip of wine. “That’s true.” she spoke after she swallowed, lips stained red. “I do not claim mastery over Legilimency. I find more natural resonance with Occlumency. In fact, the world certification board agrees with my claim that I am an expert in the field.”

Tom took a sip of his own wine. It was smooth, then a harsh snap of sour on his tongue. It burned through his nose in the taste of alcohol.

“I have mastery over astral projection, and consensual possession and shared sensory detection.” Crina continued calmly, “although on average I open more wine bottles than I do open other’s senses.”

Tom took another sip calmly.

“I have published several books exploring the mental abilities of those afflicted with various curses. I’ve also been called in to assist with cognitive examinations for a few dark cognitive spells, such as broken personalities. A few studies were published, if you care for such meaningless information.”

Tom tried to ignore the small sliver that pierced him at that. “Why do you assume it would be meaningless information if you spent so much time on it?”

Crina leaned back to make herself more comfortable on her chair. “Meaningless, because it does not apply to you, Mr. Riddle. I’m one of the most accomplished mental medi witches in the world, and I do hate having my time wasted. Not everyone can be bribed with alcohol.”

Tom’s face twitched ever so slightly. “You appear far too young to be so accomplished in such a short time.”

Crina didn’t so much as  _ blink.  _ “My job is very stressful. I take more relaxing baths than advised for my own sanity.”

“You sit in bubbles and forget the world?” Tom asked coldly.

“Of course not.” Crina took a sip from her wine glass. “I splurge with lavender and volcanic salts. Do give me some credit, Mr. Riddle. Not all of us crawled our way out of a worm infested trench.”

Tom’s hand curled around the glass in his clutches. The other flexed until blisters ruptured.

“Oh dear,” Crina noted, not seeming very disturbed by the sight of dried blood and puss. “That looks like incompatible magic damage. I wonder why you would ever attempt something so self injurious.”

A pause, then Crina shook her head. “I apologize, that was rhetorical. A patient of mine refuses to talk so I do enough for both of us.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you ceased talking all together.”’ Tom smiled, bitingly sharp.

“Because my words are threatening.” Crina translated. “Because you enjoy the false sense of fear you inspire in others. Unfortunately, I’ve been exposed to countless horrors and you do not impress me as you hope to.”

Tom ignored the sharp bite and how his anger spiked for a small moment. “Do you ever grow tired of rambling?”

“Do you ever grow tired of attempting to inspire fear in others despite no physical proof of your abilities?” Crina countered with almost a flair of something playful. “Perhaps you should wring a birds neck for me. Stab a kitten to show me your true psychopathic nature,  _ Mr. Riddle.” _

Tom felt conflicted. He could obey the seething voice in his mind which urged him to lash out and confirm he was something to be feared. On the other hand, by doing such things it would confirm that everything she had said was valid and as such, applicable to him. Tom Riddle had survived so long by being the most intelligent creature in the room. He thrived off knowing he had an advantage, and any time he was without was surely chaos.

Tom Riddle bit his tongue, and resisted rising to the anger in his blood. Crina smiled, bowing her head in the most subtle display of admiration yet.

“Impressive.” She murmured calmly, “I was nearly certain you’d snap at that one.”

Tom’s hand twitched ever so slightly, and he didn’t respond.

“I think that hand of yours is quite impressive.” Crina mentioned, taking a small sip. Her glass was running low on wine, but she seemed in no way hampered by it. “The fact you willingly used someones wand while knowing the possible ramifications of it. You measured your risks and reward and ignored the ramifications of pain or injury. You haven’t hesitated once, and your glass hasn’t tipped despite your agitation. Ambidextrous?”

Tom’s mouth twitched slightly. “A dominant left hand is a sign of the devil's’ child.”

“There are more signs to you than having a left hand dominant.” Crina pointed out.

Tom gave a small nod of his head in return.

“How desperate you must feel.” Crina continued quietly, trailing off with her fingers tapping against crystal. “To willingly maim yourself with that. Based on your own magical signature and the state of the room when I entered, you used Mr. Blacks?”

Tom said nothing, and that itself gave him away.

“How curious,” Crina mused with a first spark of pure curiosity in her eyes. “Your core and signature must be very divergent to react so...hostile, over someone different than you. You must be incredibly protective over your wand then, who has it?”

Tom took a sip of his drink and tasted it quietly. He swallowed, and swallowed his pride. “Albus Dumbledore.”

“I’ll speak with him to have it returned.” Crina responded almost instantly. “Tell me, do you make yourself hurt?”

Tom didn’t respond and Crina huffed quietly.

“Forgive me,” she apologized tensely. “I forgot myself. At times it is difficult speaking with youth due to the...censorship over such...topics. May I diverge the topic into more familiar territory?”

Tom eyed her carefully. “You propose this how?”

Crina set her glass on the floor and reached into her bag again. She retrieved a small paper box, along with something plastic and unfamiliar to him. She opened the carton, and Tom would never forget the paper poison that soothed him when the ground rattled.

“This entire carton is yours.” She passed it over politely. “I assume you can figure the lighter. It is muggle in origin, but simple to operate. Nicotine withdrawal is cruel given your situation, and an oversight of the moronic collection operating as your warden.”

Tom fumbled out one of the sleek paper rolls. The small stains on his fingers still remained, it had been a while since he had found a package in the broken ruins of the bomb sites. 

The lighter had a button, he clicked it and burned his fingers with a familiar kiss of warmth.

“You have your smokes,” She beckoned calmly, “I have my wine. I want you to talk to me, Mr. Riddle. You’re more fascinating than I presumed, and we all know you're not adapting as well as you pretend. Granted, you are an excellent actor.”

Tom inhaled, choking himself silent on the fumes he embraced. Asbestos under his skin, a cooling buzz to calm the hive of wasps that injected venom in his blood. The opportunities this woman provided gave him an out, with a sacrifice of his pride and security. 

“Are you working for Dumbledore?” Tom asked, muffled with smog.

“No,” she responded with a smile, “Dumbledore is one of my patients. Or rather...he cross examines information of mine to assure it is credible. Dumbledore works for me.”

Oh, that was something different.

“Perhaps we should start this conversation differently, but productively.” She offered with neutral ground. “What was the last spell you performed?”

Tom told her, rolling Latin over his tongue like it was the wine she drank.

She nodded without any sign of displeasure. “The corpse locating curse. What were you searching corpses for?”

“Clothing.” Tom said briefly without hesitation. “My shirt was ruined, I was scavenging the dead for a shirt not rotting.”

“Mm.” Crina said. “You must hate the clothes stores.”

Tom almost laughed. “Viscerally.” 

Crina tipped her now empty glass. “Tom Riddle, I believe we are going to have wonderful conversations.”

* * *

“You’re walking down a road, and you see a wounded bird.” Crina paused, tilting her head ever so slightly. The lines by the corner of her eyes were more noticeable now. “Or...rather, you see a wounded man. Perhaps that would be more understandable? You see a wounded man, laying sheltered near a building. What is your first thought, Tom?”

There was the urge to lie, to say the proper answer the one she expected. There was the urge to say the truthful thing, the only option that may leave her in shock and revolted by his nature.

“It’s...a man.” Tom began, the word feeling odd and numb as he spoke the truth in the first time in his memory. “An injured man. I don’t care.”

Crina smiled thinly, the unique expression he finally could place after an hour of her time. It wasn’t judging or sharp. It wasn’t approval or disappointment either, it was her...expression of equality. Of recognizing they both were individuals that had topics to discuss.

“My first thought is recognition that it is injured as well.” She confirmed softly. “And yet, I want to use the opportunity to murder it. I want to crush its bones. There is a primal rejection of weakness which nobody ever discusses. The culling of the weakened sprouts, the removal of weeds. It is as common and as natural as the desire to protect and nurture. Of course, I wouldn’t crush it, but my first thought is to do so.”

Crina shifted her body forward ever so slightly. “I am perfectly sane and I experience such thoughts. Why do you believe yourself to be such a monster?”

Tom’s mouth felt slimy and cold. “I  _ am  _ a monster.”

Crina for the first time, frowned.

“Is that the label you’ve associated with yourself now? A  _ monster?”  _ She seemed disappointed, or upset by something Tom couldn’t place. “In the world, we do not have true monsters. We have concepts and unexplained phenomena which we accredit to monsters. A murderer does not make you a monster, Tom Riddle.”

Tom flinched. He felt hollow, like something had clawed his innards like a pumpkin on Halloween. “You have no idea of what I’ve done, and what I will do.”

Crina made a small noise, a little airy sigh. “How  _ lazy,  _ to discredit your future and whatever faith you have to something as minor as coincidence.”

“Leave my faith  _ out of this.” _

“I imagine,” she bit out sharply, cutting deep into him like bared wire on his thigh. “That you’ve done all you can in your life to convince others that you are just as demonic as you wish you were. Perhaps then, you imagine, there is a  _ reason  _ for why everyone has abandoned you.”

* * *

“There is a medical witch coming,” Crina spoke lazily, finally relaxed enough after having made some sort of progress into Tom’s psyche. “She’s waiting outside. She’ll run a complete medical check and background. There’s countless vaccinations you’re out of date on.”

The buzz of nicotine was the only thing soothing him to where he wouldn’t lash out. “I presumed as much.”

“Once again, you don’t exist in the world of documentation.” Crina informed him calmly, “all medical notes are linked to my own diagnostics reports and documentation. I will be aware of all findings, but of course, nobody else will have legal availability to view such findings.”

“I doubt you’d inform Dumbledore of it even if I were dying.” Tom spoke dryly, bitterly. He inhaled a thick drag that made his vision swim.

“You’re right.” Crina smiled behind a small twist of her lips. “I wouldn’t. He gives me a headache and only causes more paperwork. Would you prefer I remain for the duration of your examination, or simply Owl you obnoxiously at a later time with all findings we need to address?”

“Owl me.” Tom responded snappish. “Better yet, purchase me an owl.”

“I’d be concerned you’d kill it out of spite.” Crina hummed.

“Aren’t psychologists not supposed to form attachments to their patients?”

Crina smiled thinly, the small expressions of her approval. “You’re correct. I only accept specific clients with qualities I find interesting. I cannot help but find myself attached to them. I have only known you for a short time, but already I am quite attached to you. Does that made me a fool, Tom?”

He scoffed loudly. “Yes. You’re always a fool for becoming fond of someone.”

Crina smiled, the lines on the edges of her eyes crinkled. “I said I had formed an  _ attachment.  _ Why does the idea of attachment equate to fondness? Is that what you believe? That to be enthralled with the mind of another, it will ultimately result in friendship or love or family?”

Tom’s teeth bared slightly. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t.” She agreed. “I doubt you’ve ever allowed yourself to form attachments in your entire life. Or at least, not to those of the living.”

Tom didn’t flinch, but by the small smirk on Crina’s face, she knew she won that debate anyways.

“I’ll be in touch.” Crina smiled, packing up her wine glasses and the half empty bottle. She left him with the half empty packet of cigarettes and the muggle lighter.

“Try not to hurt anyone else.” Crina spoke in a quiet drawl, “hurting yourself is within my paycheck. I don’t apply to others.”

She walked past him, her heels clicked. The moment the door closed, Tom grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it across the room with a shriek.

He grabbed the half burned cigarette, lighting it desperately to inhale so forcefully the filter burned and burned his fingertips. He was choking out smoke when the door opened and a plump witch stumbled in.

She took one glance at the smoke before her eyes got wide in alarm. She hurriedly closed the door, taking out her wand with fumbling fingers.

“Oh dear is that Dragonpox?” She hurried out, eyes wide on the smoke.

“No.” Tom ground out, flipping the burned end to put out the ash on the couch. It sizzled satisfyingly. “It’s muggle.”

“Oh.” The witch breathed in confusion, but thankfully didn’t address it any further. “Well, we’re here for a full examination for documentation Mr. Riddle! Can I ask some basic health questions before we begin the examination?”’

Tom couldn’t argue anyways, so he let it go.

“Have you ever stayed in a hospital before?” She asked chipper. Tom’s eye almost twitched.

“Muggle disease.” He ground his teeth. “Scarlet fever.”

She blinked in alarm and scribbled it down, “Do you have any ongoing medical conditions such as asthma?”

Tom very pointedly did not look at the cigarettes still by his side.

The questions continued, going on and on for various issues Tom couldn’t answer, or were simple. The date of his last dental visit (which Tom had never seen), any injury as an infant was beyond his knowledge. The entire section regarding family history was completely foreign to him.

It was irritating and demeaning, especially with the apparently latent infection of a few diseases he recognized in name; cholera, giardia. The mediwizard looked particularly ill when she managed to pull a half dozen insects out from irritable scabies.

“Right.” She squeaked, looking slightly green. “You’re 5 foot and 7 inches, which is 170 centimeters. A bit...oh, a bit light, dearie. You’re 101 pounds, or 45.8 kilograms. That’s a body mass index of 15.9, which is a bit light for your age-.”

Tom rolled his eyes and casually ignored the alarmed ramblings of the woman. He only tuned back in when she was displaying obvious fretting over various nutrient deficiencies. 

Oh it was going to be delightful once she forced him to strip.

Eventually the time came, and she had a small worried flush to her skin. By the time he was forced to take off his shirt, she had already locked on to a few things that stood out wrong. The hollows of his collarbones, the way his ribs protruded. The scar tissue of amateur potions he hadn’t managed to remedy with commercial potions. Small cuts were still scabbed, small marks were still bleeding.

“Oh.” She whispered in horror, her squeamish face twisting even further. “Sweet Merlin.”

Ah, she’d found his back then. 

She didn’t touch, and he took savage glee in the way her eyes lingered far too long on the crude handmade needle tattoo on his forearm, warding him away from minor illnesses and sickness; the lashes and bleeding wounds, or the large purple bruises symmetrical on his waist.

“Dreamless sleep potions as well.” Tom spoke in a tone almost purring, chipper in how the mediwitch likely would be taking a vacation day tomorrow, “at least a month’s worth.”

“Okay.” She hoarsely accepted, blinking quickly before she started scribbling rapidly. 

Tom hadn’t realized what a pathetic world he lived in, with pathetic people. He was already missing in a strange sick way the intelligent company of Crina Dimitriu 

* * *

He was foolish to stay in the public areas of the room, but he couldn’t remain in the stuffy shroud of dust he was forced to endure his psychiatric session in.

Already, the word seemed sick and disgusting on his tongue.  _ Mental sickness,  _ the names for madness that sent men from the trenches to their deaths. He had seen them firsthand, the men screaming and clutching their skulls at demons nobody could see. Tom thought them pathetic, but something about Crina made everything different. Someone intelligent wouldn’t waste their time on meaningless buffoons, those without hope. Someone like her wouldn’t waste a life goal on discussing and interrogating those already consumed by madness. 

But he couldn’t imagine  _ him  _ needing something like  _ mind healing.  _ He didn’t need a straitjacket, the electricity and cutting his brain in half he had heard the Germans were trying out. To be different would be his death, to be different would call for holy water.

He shivered at the thought, so he fled to the drawing room with most sunlight and curled in a chair as small and unassuming as possible. His diary was in his lap, unopened but a comforting weight on his lap. The cracked cover was dirtied in one corner, he’d have to find oil somewhere to soften it and fix it the best he could.

The door opened. The youngest girl of the redheads came in with the older girl, Hermione he remembered.

The younger froze, then glared at him with a silent snarl.

“Oh  _ great.”  _ The younger girl snarled out viciously, hands twisting as if ready to draw a wand. Tom’s left hand, healed of the burns, flared in phantom pain.

“I’m not sitting in a room with a monster!” The younger girl screamed furiously.

Hermione tried to shush her, or restrain her in some way. Tom let his eyes slide away, gazing at the paintings on the walls instead. He remembered them foggily, from the descriptions Orion gave him.

“Get that bloody book away from me!” The girl screamed, pointing at the diary in Tom’s lap. Tom felt a headache flare.

“Then get me something good to read!” He snapped back irritated. The leather was smooth and soft in his grip, something to help ground himself.

Hermione glared at him and gave a small scoff. “I only have Shakespeare and I doubt you’d have enough patience to enjoy classic literature.”

Tom had a fairly stressful day. He had endured countless challenges, but enduring the stupidity of aggressors was a tad too much. Tom inhaled shakily and exhaled smoothly. He calmed with a synthetic cold, a small smirk that curled on the edges viciously.

The younger girl, Ginny, paled and ducked out of the room instantly. Hermione froze, almost unable to believe what she had seen.

“I wouldn’t appreciate classics.” Tom sniped out short and coldly. The words seemed to hang there, and Tom’s smirk was a little bit more vicious. He scanned through his memory, the nights at the orphanage of reading books by lantern light because of  _ boredom.  _

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,” Tom startled, words rolling gently as he remembered the lines of playwright on old stained paper. “Creeps in this petty pace  from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time.”

Hermione stared at him, the horror from before was starting to bubble, transfiguring itself into something curious and restrained. “...Macbeth?” She guessed quietly.

Tom’s grin was as sharp as before. “I find the tragedies more appealing. Romance is his wasted effort.”

Hermione shuddered. “People would argue that Romeo and Juliet was his best work.”

“How unfortunate.” Tom spoke cruelly, “that people tend to be moronic to a fault.”

“You can’t blame people in general!” Hermione’s voice rose to a high pitched squeal. “That's, that’s bigotry!”

Tom’s expression didn’t falter. “If you want to debate over literature, I advise you to read. Whatever knowledge you possess now is inferior. Philosophy, then come back to me.”

Hermione flushed, an ugly splotchy red that Tom took savage delight in. Her eyes welled and watered slightly, she sniffled at the insult then stormed out. The door clicked shut behind her, rattling in its frame. Somewhere in the house, a portrait began to scream.

Tom looked back at the book in his lap and flipped open his diary to a random page. The spidery scrawl of his own handwriting mocked him, the words even more so. He could remember every entry, every moment as he wrote in darkness or in the light that pierced the mortar dust and smoke. A fault in his memory, that he struggled to remember such basic trivial things.

He let the book close again, and traced the small cracks along its spine and cover. His thigh burned, and he was very hungry.

* * *

He was partially surprised he was even invited to dinner that night. With his ( _ painful _ ) appointment with Crina earlier, to the horrified mediwitch that had passed him the prescription potions for nutrients, weight gains, and dreamless sleep, and  _ then  _ lashing out at both Hermione and Ginny (her name was), it was a miracle he was given food.

He ignored them all to the best of his abilities, well aware of how Sirius Black was sitting next to him at the table as his warden. He could smell food being prepared, the thick smell of yeast that only accompanied with fresh bread. Already he was salivating for a bite, but had enough knowledge to recognize consuming food at this point would only irritate his delicate stomach.

He could likely have some of the bread, for it was taunting him at this rate.

“No!” Ginny screamed from in the kitchen. “I refuse! I am  _ not  _ having dinner with that monster!”

“Ginny Weasley!” Her mother screamed back in turn, “do not call him such things!”

“I bet you he wants to murder everyone!’ Ginny screamed, voice rattling the glasses of water on the table. “I bet you he wants to slaughter all the muggles!”

Tom sighed and traced sigils into the table. He knew it wouldn’t do anything, but it was helpful to keep his mind sharp for what he would need to carve eventually. “I don’t. If that matters at all.”

“Probably not.” Sirius consoled with a small huff. “You really messed with her. Or, you will. Bloody hell this is confusing.”

Tom felt a small surge of annoyance, that this was an annoyance to  _ him.  _ Oh, it was entirely a  _ minor inconvenience  _ for Tom, being thrown into a world where he had  _ nothing going for him. _

The food was set on the table, daggers being shot at Tom from every source. He ignored it, at least this he was used to receiving at the orphanage. He was ready for the rug to be torn out from under him, for them to jeer and laugh about how he  _ ‘did you really think you’d be eating today? Go to your room!’ _

He was arching forward, curling slightly over the empty placement of his plate. Sirius watched him, his eyes oppressive and heavy on Tom’s back. Tom’s stomach gurgled, cramping agonizingly although he knew not to listen to its anguished cries.

“Well.” Mrs. Weasley startled, smiling although it was partially forced. Tom’s eyes were locked on the bread in front of him, focused with the single minded intent of a predator. “I’m so happy we’re all back here together!” 

Ginny snorted from where she was seated a fair distance away. Well without of striking reach with a butter knife. “Shouldn’t our resident monster say something?”

_ ‘Shouldn’t our devil-touched say something?’ _

Tom’s eyes didn’t leave the table as the well familiar blessing scattered through his thoughts. It was impossible to forget it now, from the way he was forced to speak out loud for everyone at every meal. The way they would cane him if he refused to speak even as a child. 

Tom opened his mouth and regurgitated blessings with the taste of acid. “Bless the Lord for the bounty he has provided and he in my body repel, the touch of Satan that rots my flesh and renders me impure Bless he who shall carve his mark upon my skin and rid me of evil of self glorification, amen.”

_ ‘Amen.’  _ The children in the orphanage would echo.

Tom lunged forward, and tore into the bread like a wolf tearing into a carcass.

* * *

He heard the news of Dunkirk, in the papers that brushed through the streets. 

The troops were coming home, fed with tea and biscuits when Tom was scrounging for bits of molded cheese. The rats of London, swamped in grease and dust. 

The wand he had in his hand wasn’t the best, but it worked with his core to a fair amount. He had scrounged through the room of forgotten things, testing out various sorts to determine what would function the best. He knew, that with the eyes of Professor Dumbledore watching him, he likely would be checked for recent magic use in his ministry registered wand. It was much safer to have a second wand, even though it wasn’t perfect. 

It made his flesh crawl, itching like ivy and pox on his skin. It didn’t make him bleed or explode, so he counted it a win.

The troops were returning, and he knew they would scavenge through London for the shreds of familiarity they left behind. They were fools to come back, to add to the festering cesspool of rot and pollution that the Thames was.

There were corpses in the buildings, a fire had spread last night and the ash and smoke was so thick even Tom choked on it from kilometers away. He knew many must have burned, roasting under the pain of it all.

The ward was still in effect over London, the backlash of any magic being used in the city. A deterrent to more terrorism, but at this point, Tom was scraping low on his supplies. His last shirt had caught fire from one unexpected bombing, his trousers survived only from his quick rolling in the plaster coating the streets. His bag was miraculously fine, but he wouldn’t last long without any sort of clothing at night.

He could always try robbing a store, but with no weaponry he knew it wouldn’t result well. He needed to search the dead; if he was lucky, he may find tickets for food or genuine clothing on the corpses.

He pulled out the borrowed wand, placing it next to his medical supplies he already had ready to go. Holding his wand in his right hand, he inhaled and tried to calm his nerves.

He spoke the incantation, feeling the thrum of absolute pleasure buzz through his nerves from the use of dark aligned magic. It was a heavily influenced curse, seeking fresh dead for the selection pool of inferi. He wasn’t looking to reanimate any bodies now, but the curse cared little for intent beyond what it could perform.Tom exhaled in an exhilarated wheeze, nearly falling into the trance from the bliss from it. It had been a long while since he could relax.

Then, the ward crushed down on him, like a boot on a small child.

Tom choked, the wand dropping from his hand. His bones rattled, his spine crackled, and he bent into contorted positions on the ground. A pitiful wheeze as the breath was stolen from his skin. His eyes flickered shut and he drooped, allowing himself to  _ suffer  _ as the wards crushed him, oppressive and heavy as it tore through his skin in obvious displeasure.

It faded, and the sticky warmth of blood drained from the gouges in his side. Large gashes, flayed sections of skin. Tom ignored the gruesome marks of archaic magic the ministry implemented. They were all afraid, especially since the rampage Grindelwald had done earlier. Tom reached for the gauze and bandages and started to try and piece his flesh back together.

He could see from the corner of his vision the purplish hue that permeated walls. The glowing violet that detailed to his eyes only the shape of a dead body. He could see around four in his eyesight, hidden in the small closets of bombed homes. Likely trying to find shelter in their last moments. They now gave Tom a chance to survive.

He stumbled his way to his feet, ignoring the small animal whine that spilled from his lips as his torso throbbed in pain and bled anew.

Maybe, if he was lucky, one of the corpses had bandages nearby. He was running low on water.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!](https://discord.gg/SVrMbMS)


	4. Mea culpa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The memories of what we have done, haunt us in our dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, there is implied dark content in this chapter.  
> This is the introduction of the darker themes I'm trying to use in this work. They will steadily increase and be more blatant as the story goes on.

_ O my God, I thank you for having preserved me today _

_ and for having given me so many blessings and graces. _

_ I renew my dedication to you and ask your pardon for  _

_ all my sins. _

* * *

In old times, before the dawn of medicine and the age of eternal glory, the thoughts of the unconscious mind were interpreted as the word of God. The dreams and sightless passage were written and spoken and from that, prophecy of the land immortal became true. People would bottle the blood of women who passed in their sleep; would sell elixirs that lesser men would beg for. A child would cut off their thumbs with innocent eyes and like a lamb, ask if they too would be received.

Tom wondered once, what use nightmares had in the world. Surely if God spoke to them in their dreams, then nightmares would be there no longer. Were nightmares and night terrors the touch of a devil, or a sign that Sin has sunk itself so deep even the messenger had begun to rot. Tom’s head was filled with wood lice, gnawing and shaking free with bits of shattered bone.

He wondered if his sins were so foul, that he would be tormented every night for his actions. He knew now that with this curse of being out of time, that his torment was for things he had yet to do. Tom didn’t believe in God, but sometimes through the haze of starlight and monsters chewing on his toes, he wondered if he was wrong.

* * *

 

Tom screamed at night, jolting awake with heaving breaths and flashes of things he couldn’t remember. His left knee throbbed; he likely flexed or kicked in his sleep and made it sore. 

His nightclothes clung to him, wet with perspiration. His hair was askew like unbrushed wool. Eyes wild like the wolf, hands crooked and flexed like the wood of the Shepard's crook.

Tom wasn’t truly awake yet, mind fogged and clouded and buzzing with half formed fears. His lips moved slightly, muscle memory repeating his apologies over and over. Mumbling out slurred words as slowly awareness came to him.

The wallpaper across from him had peeled away, curling away as the glue hardened with bubbles and lumps. Boiled in place and leaving the paper to curl downwards like the tongue of a curious toad. The floorboards were weirdly shaped, nails sticking upwards like thumbtacks. His side table had toppled, the sheets on his bed were thin ribbons. The doorknob was gone and around the base a muddle of hardened molten metal.

The door burst open, swinging on lopsided joints. There was nothing to impede it now that the lock resembled a sheet of ice.

“Kid!” Sirius barked out, his wand held up and glowing. He didn’t go for the light switch. Tom glanced upwards, and wasn’t at all surprised to see that the bulb had shattered.

“What.” Tom tried to snap back, but the shaky feel to his voice was far too apparently to get away with a countenance of composure.

Sirius Black stared at him in the dim light, stepping carefully around the glass and upright nails scattered across the floor.

“Real mouse trap in here, innit?” Sirius muttered to himself, nearly stepping on one longer nail that evaded his eye. Tom kept his eyes on the mounds of blanket the hid his feet. His thigh was throbbing, which was a bad sign.

Sirius finally made it closer, just as Tom’s rapid breathing was only a tad shaky. The man frowned then made a soft sigh, clearly noticing how Tom’s clothing stuck to his backside.

“C’mon.” Sirius soothed, using one thumb to indicate the open doorway, “there’s a bit of a lumpy couch you can sleep on for tonight. I don’t think you have other sleep clothes, I’ll find something.”

Tom said nothing, but as he swung his legs across the bed he hissed instinctively curling. Small specs of red dotted along his left pant leg.

“Hurt yourself, eh?” Sirius murmured quietly, soothing as he lowered himself onto the bed carefully next to the still recovering teen. Sirius grabbed one of the long strips of what was once Tom’s sheets, doubling it up to a suitable thickness.

Tom winced, peeling the sleep pants downwards, finally getting to the source of the issue. Something which reminded Sirius of a garter from his wilder days, except this one was made of metal and a thick woven hair. The metal spikes pointed inwards, like little talons that clawed into the meat of Tom’s thigh. Scarce hair and thick black scabs like the shell of beetles. The skin of his leg was silvery and translucent, spotted scar tissue that indicated a level of casualness to the grisly scene.

“It looks like your magic made you heal.” Sirius grimaced, drawing his wand closer for inspection. “Your trashing tore your skin more than this….thing, would have otherwise.”

“A cilice.” Tom bit out, fishing his long thin fingers under the metal teeth to loosen the scabs. Without care for grace, he pulled- freeing the teeth from his thigh only to dig them deeper on the other side. Blood dripped anew, trailing downwards in disappointing tear marks. Tom didn’t show any sign that it pained him, or perhaps he learned to care naught.

Sirius said nothing even as Tom undid the belt’s latch, peeling away each of the metal teeth from his thigh one at a time like peeling the sticker off a new broom. It popped tree, his leg looking as if gnawed on by some ravenous creature of his own demise.

Without a care, he fashioned it tightly (Sirius paled) on his other thigh and pulled his trousers up as if the blood stains and leaking wounds meant nothing to him. Maybe they didn’t. 

Tom climbed to his feet, toes flexing on the floorboards. Eyes glazed and tired, dark circles haunting him even when awake.

“Let’s go.” Sirius murmured gently, guiding a safe passage across the room. The tacks, when Tom drew near, all rattled away from him. The glass melted into the cracks between the boards.

The door swung open on its creaky lopsided joints. The tapestries on the walls were all shredded, the lights burst and useless. It looked like there was a fire from one broken light. Only Tom’s room had a melted door handle or upwards nails.

Commotion was bustling as the house slowly woke. It was an early hour, far before the sun would rise. Tom followed after Sirius, quietly allowing himself to be lead to the one living room where a large velvet couch looked lumpy, but inviting.

“I’ll have to search the main floor. You shredded most blankets in the house I reckon.” Sirius confessed quietly, keeping his voice a low murmur since Tom was still exhausted.

Cabinets and doors were opening, voices were muffled but increasing in volume. Tom pulled one knee to his chest, pressing his forehead against in with hopes the pressure would soothe the throbbing and spinning of the world.

Sirius returned in a little while, a thick flannel blanket over one arm. Tom cracked one eye open to scan the surface- there were thin ribbon tears along the sides like the dull claws of a cat. 

“The others are awake, really messed with the whole house.” Sirius informed him gently. The differences in his character was startling. Tom said nothing, but he did curl slightly tighter as the blanket coated his sides and back with a soothing pressure.

His head was spinning, flashes of memories he couldn’t quite place. His stomach was clenched and churning on the unfortunate precipice of vomiting, yet his body burned with perspiration and vertigo behind his eyelids.

The door swung open, louder mumbles. Tom resisted a whine of annoyance.

“You!” Someone screamed, high pitch and agonizing. Rapid feet, and Sirius stepped forward with a hushed noise to soothe the attacker away.

“Don’t worry, Ginny.” Sirius murmured gently, holding the small girl’s shoulders with each hand carefully, “Ginny, it’s fine. I’ve got it under control.”

The door was open like a dam, and more people poured in like mountain runoff. Wedging themselves into the cracks of cobblestone. Tom kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore the whispers that always followed him.

“What happened!” Hermione asked, voice thicker with sleep but very worried. She hesitated a moment before rushing to hug the youngest Weasley, comforting her and restraining her in one movement.

“Padfoot?” Harry asked, slipping through the doorway with Ron following behind, “Padfoot what was with the clawing?”

“It was nothing,” Sirius hushed the group, trying in vain to escort them out of the room. “Just some unexpected accidental magic.”

“ _ What?”  _ Ron asked dumbly, looking quite gobsmacked. “Gin’ didn’t do anything!”

“Except now my blankets are all torn to hell!” Ginny screamed, her voice an octave too high for Tom’s threshold.

He groaned quietly, pressing his face even further into his knees. Similarly soothing the ache behind his eyes, and drawing the eyes of others onto his small body.

“Oh,” Harry clued in first, blinking quickly before he grimaced in sympathy. “Yeah, that would..be bad.”

Sirius sighed in exasperation, and tried once more to escort the group out.

“I bet you did this on purpose!” Ginny spat, thrashing in Hermione’s grip. “I bloody liked that blanket!”

Tom’s hand clenched as he straightened his head slowly, shifting his body slightly so that the blanket fell from where it shrouded him.

“I am  _ trying,”  _ Tom spat out, voice filled with venom, “to get some ruddy  _ sleep.” _

“You’re the one that woke us up.” Ron muttered scathingly. Still loud enough that Tom head.

Tom was  _ tired  _ of this.

“Get out.” He snapped, eyes blazing. He jerkily forced himself to his feet, the ground swaying ever so slightly as his vision adjusted. “Get  _ out.” _

Ginny stuck her chin out, “make me you  _ bastard.” _

Tom’s lip curled, his head  _ hurt,  _ and his thigh was beginning to really bother him. “I want you to  _ get out.” _

A chill, a heavy suffocating weight. Tom swayed further, Sirius cursed. Ginny stiffened in Hermione’s grip before she twitched and began to turn. Slow and bewitched, vacant in eye.

“Bollocks.” Sirius muttered, one hand grabbing Ginny to shake her free from whatever light compulsion Tom managed in his tired state.

“Get out!” Tom spat again, hand twitching and curling into fists at his side. Hermione and Ron took a step backwards as self-preservation controlled their actions. Harry watched with large,  _ irritatingly sympathetic  _ eyes.

“Stop this.” Sirius barked sharply at Tom, then returned to shaking the groggy and confused Ginny. “Hermione, take Ginny and get out of here.”

“Yes, Sirius.” Hermione stuttered, grabbing the hand of the younger girl before dragging her out of the room. Ron hurried after, tending to his younger sister.

Harry watched, gnawing on his lower lip as Tom began to sway ever so slightly from where he stood.

“You er, had a nightmare.” Harry blurted with no tact. “I uh, I don’t mean…”

“Get the hell out of here.” Tom growled low, looking ready to grab the nearest lamp fixture to throw at the boy’s head.

“I just-.” Harry stuttered over his words uncomfortably. He ducked his head sheepishly, almost bashfully. “I...I sometimes see…”

Harry paused, then looked at Tom skeptic.

Tom didn’t like it. He didn’t like how Harry almost appeared to see through him, like his eyes were scanning over his soul and the actions of his desperation. He didn’t like how the conversation stopped and froze, how Sirius stiffened in comprehension by the act of conversation cessation.

“What?” Tom snapped out, although it twisted on the end with an emotion nobody could place.

“...Nothing.” Harry finished, wringing his hands nervously, “just...you know you’re safe here...right?”

_ No. I’m not.  _ Tom thought viciously.

Harry said nothing, but he did finally walk from the room just as everyone had walked out of Tom’s life before.

* * *

The morning brought awareness and light on the situation- and on the heavy bags under Tom Riddle’s eyes. It was obvious the other hadn’t gotten a lick of sleep after the night screaming. The level of viciousness in his gaze didn’t waver, even as he was served a plate of bland eggs and plain toast. It was still uncertain if too much grease and lard would bother his sensitive stomach, so only bland foods were given to him.

“You look horrible.” Ginny said quite delighted, sitting near him with her heavy plate of bacon. Harry knew, that the redhead generally didn’t enjoy such fatty foods so early. The smell was rich in the air; Tom leaned away nauseated.

“Hmm?” Ginny asked, maintaining eye contact as her teeth crunched through the crispy meat.

Tom said nothing, but the shadows of his glare only looked more sulky with the purple marks and translucent skin.

“Ginny, eat with manners.” Hermione spoke in a hushed voice to the girl, still mindful of how dangerous Tom Riddle was.

Ginny huffed and snapped her mouth closed.

“You look like you didn’t get any sleep.” Harry awkwardly broke the praise.

Tom said nothing, but began to cut into his toast with aggressive talons of a fork.

“You aren’t chatty.” Ron muttered into his plate of potatoes, scooping up a large mound to fill his face.

Ginny brightened, her whole body perking up. “Then lets chat about something we  _ all  _ have opinions on!”

Harry felt something cold and heavy settle in his gut, “Ginny-.”

“Murder!” She practically crowed out, propping her face up as she stared intently at Tom with a look of a wolf staring down its food. “What’s  _ your  _ opinion,  _ Tom.” _

Tom inhaled through his nose, and continued to dig into his toast.

“Surely you must think murder is okay in  _ some  _ instances.” Ginny’s words were gaining more of a bite. “ _ I  _ can think of a  _ few individuals.” _

Tom set his fork down with a clatter. His face shifted into a smile that looked out of place with the juxtaposition of his eyes. The bags made him look more ghastly, tired and fed up with the girl’s antics.

“Oh I see,” He began, almost demonic with how his lips pulled back, “philosophy is your beast of burden. Well then,  _ Ginny,  _ most humans share a bias toward the value of empathy, which makes a Kantian notion of ethics quite natural to us. If murder were not forbidden by law and social taboo, individuals would still experience guilt for doing it. From many perspectives, the injunction against murder is more than just a...social convention. It is an evolved or a psychogenic trait, and as such a universal concept to anthropologism. From this point of view,  _ yes  _ murder is wrong.”

Ginny stared. Ron’s potato fell from his spoon onto his plate with a small  _ splat. _

“...You know Kant?” Hermione whispered, more to herself.

Tom tilted his head ever so slightly, eyes focused on the very overwhelmed young girl. “Even in your confession over desire for murder, it seems obvious your desire for murder contravenes even the most  _ basic values  _ of empathy. What a  _ horrid existence  _ a beast must experience to have as such.”

Harry blinked quickly. He didn’t quite understand everything Tom just said, but he was fairly sure he had just somehow insulted Ginny quite cruelly.

“Well.” Hermione cleared her throat shakily, “I’ll be reading today.”

She paused, looking at Tom shyly and still fairly unsure. “...If you’re bored, I  _ do  _ have a few books that may be of interest.”

Tom ignored her, and tore into his toast once again.

* * *

Alastor peered at the torn shreds of fabric. Gathered from all over the house.

“Which floor was this one from?” He asked, prodding one bunch of cloth that had thin hairline tears all across the length.

“Kitchen.” Sirius nodded, crossing his arms from the doorway. “Other end is from Ginny’s room, the furthest floor in the house.”

Moody frowned, tracing the scraps and tears with one heavily calloused finger. “You saying that boy managed to tear up fabric from every floor in the house.”

“Not only that.” Sirius jerked his head towards the general direction of his room. “The nails were upturned, the doorknob melted too. Multiple levels of accidental magic.”

Moody exhaled in a rush, running one hand through his wiry hair. “Merlin. You said he did conscious control of Ginevra?”

“A basic compulsion.” Sirius agreed with a small frown, “physical contact shook her out of it. He was desperate, night terrors.”

“Ah,” Moody grimaced sympathetically, “bastard things. Any other signs?”

“He tried my wand. Horrible reaction.” Sirius shrugged slightly. “I’m not too sure any wand here would work.”

“Potter’s might.” Moody agreed with another grimace. “Don’t let him  _ touch  _ Potter’s wand. This level of accidental magic may just destroy half the house with a proper conduit, even without a spell.”

“Maybe I should set him on my mother’s portrait.” Sirius jokingly offered, “maybe he could shut that bitch up.”

Moody managed a small sideways grin, “might be so. Keep an eye on him, those sleeping potions are coming in once we finish scanning them all. Can’t ever be too safe, poison’s a thing. He’s been a good little prisoner, hasn’t he?”

“Perfect.” Sirius dryly countered. “He’d even listen and take notes for Bins’ lectures.”

Moody laughed, a loud scratchy noise. He shook his head fondly, shifting the wreckage of destroyed blankets and drapes to the side. “Keep him comfortable. We’ll open his leash a little, see what he does with more room. No point muzzling him if he knows not to bite.”

“I really hate the dog expressions.” Sirius sulked, but nodded nonetheless. “We need to bring in Crina?”

“Crazy woman is off hunting down dark wizards.” Moody shivered, “hate having her around. Makes my skin crawl.”

“Imagine  _ my  _ situation.” Sirius shivered, “she bloody well  _ singled me out. _ ”

Moody shook his head sympathetically. “Poor bastard. I heard even Albus is a bit frightened of her.”

Sirius visibly shuddered, “any woman able to make bloody  _ Grindelwald  _ cry is someone to stay the hell away from. Merlin, let me know when she comes around, I wanna be hiding as far away as I can.”

* * *

“Have you ever murdered anyone?” Harry asked Tom, not looking at the boy’s trouser leg where it was stained with blood from an unknown source.

Tom didn’t look startled, or interested by the question. “I don’t have a wand.”

Harry shook his head and locked his jaw. “Before. Did you ever murder anyone?”

Tom paused, running his finger over the cloth of his shirt in a soothing habit Harry noticed. IT looked like the boy was marveling over the fabric, the leisurely comfort he had never known before.

“Magic outside of school,” Tom began in a slow thick voice, heavy with implications. “Is illegal. I may have...fantasized of it. I’m not foolish enough to take away the opportunity I have. Or had.”

Harry nodded, looked down at his folded hands.

“My first year at Hogwarts,” Harry started awkwardly. “I...I think...there was a teacher trying to kill me. Nobody actually told me what happened, but I think I killed him.”

Tom didn’t look over. Almost like it was uninteresting.

“I’ll never forget it.” Harry continued in a low murmur, “the sounds of his screaming. He...he had a stutter but when you scream...it’s so..”

Harry shuddered uncomfortably, then looked away.

Tom ignored him, or maybe he never cared to begin with.

* * *

“No no no.” Tom gasped out, scrambling over broken bits of rubble and dust. The shadow from the hidden alcove obscured colour, but the smell was reeking and no movement betrayed him. “Oh God oh God.”

Tom shook his head, trying to get the thick cloying smell of rust out of his nose. So thick and pungent he could taste it, like liver under-cooked.

“Get up.” Tom whispered, his fingers sore and bleeding from where they caught on the rough edges of the brick. One nail was broken, chipped away when he clawed at the cobblestone.

The man didn’t get up. It smelled thick and sickly. 

“Oh lord.” Tom gasped out, barely aware of how his chest was heaving and his sight obscured in what little light was there. “Oh God, I’m bloody well so sorry oh  _ shit-.” _

Tom shakily scrambled even further, his trousers catching from how poorly they were fastened. “I didn’t mean ter.” He whispered brokenly, uncaring of the whistling wheeze of his hysteria.

The man didn’t get up. In what little light filtered through the crack in the exposed cellar ceiling, the man’s eyes were open and unseeing.

Tom had heard that sometimes rocks could leave men blind. Like fever when they burned too hot. He hoped it was that. He knew it wasn’t.

“T-Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.” Tom choked out, a bubbling wet laugh as the blood kept spreading towards his legs. It didn’t matter, his trousers were already stained and damp.

“Though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool.” Tom chanted, his skin itching and burning. He could feel his hips throb, where they would be stained dark with bruises. He leaned over and heaved, bile mixing with tears and more to leave a salty foul mixture in his throat. He wished he could scrub it out until his teeth fell out.

The man stared at him blankly. The gash across his temple vicious and wide- the brick Tom managed to pull free in the throes of his panic.

_ ‘Wait, no I didn’t say yer-.’ _

_ ‘Oh shut up ya tramp. I’m already payin’ yer-.’ _

Tom squeezed his eyes closed tighter and clawed his broken fingertips into the dust around him. “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as write as snow. Though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wo-.”

_ ‘Pretty little thing, ain’t yer? Hold still yer little shite-.’ _

Tom leaned over and puked again, hating how shaky he felt.

He shouldn’t be like this. He shouldn’t be trembling. He had done this before- he was starving. He sometimes puked later but he never was too hurt and it didn’t matter. Sometimes his eyes bleed red when he couldn’t breathe but he was  _ starving  _ and Diagon wasn’t  _ opening  _ and he didn’t want to-.

_ ‘How much fer an hour, brat?’ _

Tom’s breathing hitched. He forced himself to his feet, and tried not to think of how wet and warm the man felt when Tom fished out the meager amount of coinage he had. It was barely any, it was a fortune in these times.

Tom was starving; and he  _ didn’t mean to. _

The man was dead, and his stomach rumbled. Tom leant over and heaved again, trying to not slip on the gore he couldn’t see when the body began to rattle in death throes.

“I didn’t mean ter.” Tom whispered to himself, shaking like a leaf as he made his way out of the ruined cellar, ascending towards the street where over salvagers scoured the ruins for anything to survive. “I didn't mean ter.”

The brick was nearby, lumpy and misshapen. The angle was all wrong, but with hysteria came blessed strength, and accidental aim on a weakened skull. Tom slung his arm behind his back, thrashing to be free of the grip. The brick met, and Tom-.

He leant against a nearby building, feeling flushed and shaky. He didn’t mean to. He-.

He knew he was drawing attention to himself. With his bloodied pants and vomit stained shirt. He hoped nobody looked further on his collar, but he doubted anyone would care other than an upturned nose. Tom was trying to survive, morals and ethics be damned in the face of death.

The nearest store was a bookstore, on the center street of Vauxhall Bridge Road. It was unharmed from the bombs, and had a still surviving bridge over the cesspool of the River Thames. Tom knew that if not for the vomit in his nose, he’d smell the sewage and death that filled the streets.

Tom began walking, trying not to limp. The road was open, a few people bustling but barely giving him a glance. He looked like he had wandered through shrapnel, or was hit in the last night. The whistling still throbbed in one of his ears.

The book shoppe had a bell above the door, the smell of sawdust from new locks on the doors and windows. Tom shuffled in, trying to wipe his nose and face the best he could from his teary eyes. At most this would be an alibi if he needed it. He didn’t think it would matter. The man would rot in a cellar, disgusting and ashamed of his vulnerable state. Exposed and trapped and he would bloat and draw in flies. Tom felt like hurling all over again.

“Do you have coin?” The shopkeeper snapped, eyeing him sharply. Tom’s state was rather poor, the sweat on his neck and brow only emphasized.

“Yeah.” Tom cleared his throat, trying to disguise the cracking of it, “Er, somethin’ small. Basic.”

The man snorted, looking at Tom with a grimace. He plucked one ordinary book, something which had seen better days. 

“Steer,” The man held the floppy book, waving it calmly. “It’ll hold ya.”

“Thanks.” Tom gave a jerky nod, plucking a set of the basic pens. He didn’t need something fancy, just an alibi. Just something basic.

“Write your name in it.” the man tapped the brown cover sharply. “That way your grave can get a stone on it. Proper name for proper heaven.”

Tom nodded jerkily, plucking the proffered pen (much better than the one he just selected for purchase), and scribbled on the inside cover  _ Tom Marvolo Riddle. _

He passed over the pen, fanning the page to help the ink dry.

“Keep it in your inner pocket.” The man pulled his own jacket away, gesturing to the location on his breast. “Safest place. Useless if we can’t recognize your face after its bloody wrecked.”

Tom nodded, keeping his head low. The idea that one day he may just...be a book to document his entire life.

He shivered, passed the coins and took the book. The diary really.

He shivered again, hiding back to where he had stashed his trunk and books, his wand hidden out of sight. He didn’t know any wards but when he returned to civilization he’d have to research basic ones. He needed to find better trousers, and stay low for a while. He couldn’t... _ work,  _ when there were bruises on his thighs. His stomach cramped, his book burned in his pocket. 

He could find food another time, he was used to it. He needed to hunker down, protect his things another night and pray he survived the night.

He fumbled with his book, flipping it open to smooth unmarked parchment. Not the quality of books he adored, but the quality he deserved.

_ ‘The eyes stared at him, facing judgement and yet Tom was the one-’ _

Tom’s breathe left him in rattled as his bloodied fingers clutched his trousers tighter. He was so sore, he was so  _ tired. _

(He wondered, if there was a chance of salvation left for him now that he succumbed to a mortal Sin.)

He shakily picked up his pen, and pressed it to paper.

_ Dear God,  _ he wrote, the words chanted at him and carved into his skull flowed from his fingers easier than English.  _ I know I am touched by devils words and I beg forgiveness for the sin of all I am. _

_ Please Lord.  _

_ I'm sorry that I'm alive. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!](https://discord.gg/SVrMbMS)


	5. Delectatio morosa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where self-preservation is subjective,  
> and picking your poison only leads to some things worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter implies distressing images, as well as darker subjects. This is the start of the decline into more morbid darker territory, thank you all so much for reading up to this point, and I hope you can keep reading.  
> Remember to take a break if you all need to.

[Here's a fan-made playlist for Diablerie!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Av8k0aCdw6A&list=PLb9pKEdYmWjPuLJ5cMWqHRRhSp0I-dgZn)

* * *

 

The blessed gift of being a burden, was the ability to hide yourself.

To be someone easily forgotten, or remembered only through scathing looks and violent curses. Moments of weakness, times when even your mind struggled to recall what was true. The adoration that walked aside hatred, gave Tom the ability to disappear.

So, Tom allowed himself to vanish.

* * *

 

_The cessation, of existence._

_The choice to fade as if you were never anything at all._

* * *

 

Nobody would admit that they had fallen into habit, that they had grown accustomed to Tom lurking around the house. The paranoia and anxiety that felt like a heavy curtain was drawn- sunlight and fresh air that nobody could truly describe other than the sheer absence of _him._

The children smiled more, Ginny played and _laughed_ again. And Tom hadn’t been seen in days.

Sure, it could have been something horrible, but on request Albus had reached out and Crina (over a rather venomous Floo call) informed them that Tom was, in her words, an _‘intelligent individual who does not require coddling, and is aware of his actions.’_

So, they had left him be. Food delivered on a clockwork schedule, left outside his door or passed inside to the pale, unsettling child with unblinking eyes.

They made sure of course, that Tom wasn’t getting up to anything... _bad,_ but from what Sirius had reported the interior of Tom’s room looked and seemed casual. There didn’t _appear_ to be anything wrong, or anything suspicious as to what his intent was.

Tom didn’t come out, so everyone else could.

Behind the door, Tom knew this rationally as well. He knew that his existence itself was burden on the new society constructed in the arms of an old dusty house that stank of rot. His bed was clean (after purchasing new linens for the entire building) and food well cooked. Richer and thicker than anything he had before- leaving him heaving and gagging on bile as the vanishing chamber pot stunk with that ever so thin layer of acid that never quite left. At night he snuck out, walking silently with bruised and practiced feet down the staircases to raid the pantries of bread and preserved foods. Plums, apples, tarts that he didn’t think would go missing. The bits that had fallen off in the back of the oven, the remnants of stew in a pot not yet cleansed. The bottles of milk that had been set aside to be recycled- still containing a saucers worth at the bottom. The food nobody thought of except in passing, the sustenance that would always be forgotten.

Tom gorged and gorged, feasting on the scraps he knew nobody would notice. The portions and hidden things he could sneak back and hide in the crease under his mattress. Compressed under time, but something Sirius hadn’t quite discovered yet.

His potions were there too, a soft blue that spoke to him with comfort very little could offer. Prowling back to his room, careful to remain hidden from the few awake portraits, Tom slithered towards the foot of the mattress to pluck one of the vials with grease stained fingers. Dreamless sleep potion tasted like something sweet and thick, the sugary remnants of syrup and vanilla.

Already he could feel it press in on him, heavy weight on the feeble state of an insomniac. He stashed the vial, curled onto his bed and pulled the covers so high he could imagine he was back in a ruin of his own making. Maybe now, cast out and shunned by the only place in the world he _dared_ think he belonged- he’d finally find a place carved out for him.

* * *

 

Tom woke with a scream bubbling on his lips, sour and tasteless and the pained gurgle of a distended abdomen.

Another explosion, another bright flash of colour like gunshots outside his door with an accompanying roar of some otherworldly beast. Sparks of blue fizzled under the door, revealing their origin to be something as... _innocent_ as _fireworks._

Another bang, another rattle on the door like the furious shrieks of the starving trying to break in.

Tom’s hands curled on the sheet, his clothing sweat damp and clinging to his side. His stomach was engorged and rounded, nausea and bile haunting behind his teeth.

Another explosion, another flash of light-

_‘Please God let me live, please God let me live-.’_

“Yeah Fred!” Someone shouted hoarsely, laughing just beyond his little door and down the stairwell. “Try the chimera one!”

A roar, like a waterfall or the scream of a bomber falling down from heaven.

Down down- _down,_ until it exploded like a flower unfurling with the acrid stench of gunpowder.

_Please God let me live-_

The fireworks all exploded with cheers like children screaming.

Tom could feel his body shake, like how his window pane rattled- and with the scream of bombs Tom scrambled across his bed and fished out another vial.

He couldn’t think- he was going to hurl and everything was spinning and distorting ever so slightly. A mask over his face, ropes pulled too tightly against his chest and he couldn’t _breathe._

He slumped over boneless onto the bed, clearly unconscious.

The window rattled; a dragon made of sparks screaming as it fell to earth in a blaze of fire.

* * *

 

The saddest thing, about being unwanted.

(Nobody cared when you started to fall from grace.)

* * *

 

“Shopping trip!” George shouted, making sure that his twin was echoing the same message all throughout the house. “Get your ruddy arses up and moving! Shopping trip!”

“George!” Mrs. Weasley shouted back, “language!”

“Sorry mum!” They echoed, already sprinting past Ron who was looking spectacularly dopey. “Come on! Off we go to wake the sleeping dragon!”

“To pluck the feral Hippogriff!”

“To defeat the savvy sphinx!”

Hermione huffed, looking on disapprovingly as the twins rushed up the stairs, cackling and laughing over something. They vanished from sight, and Hermione turned her sights on Harry.

“Oh no.” Harry recognized the look in her eye and instantly went on the defensive. “Mione, Mione I don’t care-.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit reckless!” She hissed out, completely ignoring the disclaimer already in the air. “That’s Tom Riddle! Taking him out in public? Honestly!”

“She’s got a point, mate.” Ron yawned.

Harry’s eyes widened as he glanced between the two of them. “Wait, why do you think you need to convince _me?_ Tom Riddle is- he- look, he’s bloody _brilliant_ so _of course_ I think it’s a bit stupid on our part. But we can’t just keep him locked up!”

“ _I_ think it’s a good idea.” Ron muttered, but with no real bite.

Something seethed, a small puddle of rage making itself coolly present. Harry glared, his face flattening into something vaguely dismissive. “Oh right. It’s not like you know what it’s like to live in a _cage.”_

Ron winced and Hermione instantly looked away in guilt.

“Come on,” Harry muttered sourly, “let’s just get some fresh air.”

* * *

 

Diagon Alley was active in the way only summer could be. Children and friends running around, peering inside extravagant displays in windows while ice cream dripped onto the cobblestone from toddler’s meaty fists.

Tom didn’t look happy about it, although the dark bags under his eyes had vanished. He likely had been sleeping much more now that nobody really saw him.

“Alright!” Mrs. Weasley chirped happily, trying to herd her red haired children, and Harry, Hermione, and Tom through the streets. Tom was visibly stiff, weaving through the crowd of people with a small curled lip. A grimace, or maybe a snarl in the making.

“Aww, don’t worry mum!” Fred laughed, looping one of his arms around Tom’s stiff shoulders. “We’ll watch him for you!”

“Yeah, don’t you worry!” George cheered, casually grabbing Tom’s other shoulder. They turned instantly, jerking with the speed of the movement and the twins dragged Tom to a nearby post shop.

“I wouldn’t want to be him.” Ron grimaced, shaking his head in sympathy. Hermione looked in the direction nervously, “you don’t think he could use their wands, right?”

“Likely not,” Harry spoke, not understanding but _feeling_ like he knew it wouldn’t work. “Did it look to you guys like...Fred and George _really_ wanted to drag Tom away?”

“You’re seeing things, mate.” Ron huffed, eyes locked on a new racing broom model in one window, “nobody would want to hang out with that monster.”

“Right…” Harry confirmed, feeling his skin itch.

* * *

 

Tom was smart, it wasn’t hard to understand why he was dragged away so quickly.

At first he thought it was to separate him from the younger girl, the sister of the twins. He could feel the subtle jerking over his shoulders, the arranged walking that guided him in sync to one nondescript stationary shop. As if it was arranged previously to the moment.

What would the twins want with _him,_ other than retribution for his existence?

Tom couldn’t help the slight stiffening of his muscles, the tensing of his shoulders and sharper gait he retained as he was gracelessly dragged by red haired guides. He felt like a cheap commodity, dragged around through the crowd of faceless strangers.

Through the quill shop, behind a stack of books made of suede and leather strips. Tom’s eyes glanced over them, skimming the merchandise with no interest. His ears open and focused, listening to the change in steady breathing.

“Alright,” Tom began, voice low and steady. His fingers traced the thick vane on a turkey feather quill, bright with autumn colours. “What is it you want from me?”

The twins didn’t appear surprised or unsettled by his ability to read the tension. They frowned slightly, unwavered by his boldness.

“We’re making new inventions,” one started, the one with slightly faster cadence. Fred, if he recalled correctly.

“But the ingredients we need aren’t in Diagon.” The other grimaced, rolling one shoulder to try and loosen the tension gathered there.

Tom nodded slowly, plucking the quill to play with it absentmindedly between his fingers. “You’re looking for apothecaries with specialized ingredients.” A spark of inspiration struck; he peered from the corner of his eyes at the two older wizards with a small tug of his lips. “You’re looking for _backstreet_ apothecaries. And- _oh,_ you think I know Knockturn.”

“Don’t you?” Fred asked, voice blunt and cut with a challenge in his posture.

Tom placed the quill back on its stand. “It’s been a while. I’m sure things haven’t changed too much.”

“If you try anything,” the one twin started, eyes sharp and cold, “we’ll make you regret being born.”

Tom withheld the snappish retort, and instead smiled as thinly as he knew how.

* * *

 

He was right, Knockturn hadn’t changed at all. There was a sense of...immortality, in the weathered stone and rusting iron. The bits of broken gargoyles that eroded in the rain. Time had no relevance to the storekeepers, or the hags that begged for coins on the corners.

Tom knew that he and the twins looked out of place- not wearing the shapeless black cloaks that frequented the shoulders of others even in the heat of summer. The small fog and mildew made the hair on the back of Tom’s neck stick to him, damp with perspiration. It smelled like tar and burnt potions, overripe oranges on the cusp of rot.

“Stay close.” Tom muttered under his breath, wishing more than anything a nearby vampire would pluck one of the twins with a savage grin. Tom knew, that they wouldn’t do such things, but the clutches of fear were strong powers indeed.

There were a few apothecaries, specializing in various categories. Poisons and potions, enhancements and tonics. One a fair bit further sold an assortment of ingredients and prepared potions on stock, some more illegal than others. It was more realistic that the selection would overwhelm the boy, proving Tom precious time to bargain with whispers with the shop owner.

(He would never admit it, but the clinking of dreamless sleep was running low. Prescriptions were...difficult, to refill for substances such as that. In the depths of Knockturn, such things were as available as candy and shrunken heads.)

“Here,” Tom murmured quietly, trying to not draw attention as he slipped under the awning and through the various long beads. The rattled with the movement, sounding like rain on a rooftop as the twins followed behind. It was infinitely darker inside the shroud, dimmer and softer on the eye. The sign was covered in cobwebs, the steps chipped and decaying from salt ground into the mortar.

“This is the place,” Tom muttered, opening the door and sliding in, uncaring of how tentative and hesitant the twins were behind him.

The inside looked just as he remembered it, although more stock. The business must have done well for itself- there were more jars and more price tags spattered all throughout.

He could have recognized it with his eyes closed, through the thick scent of slightly rotten ingredients. The low musty odor of a vial cracked along the seam, the smell of burnt wax or a bit too ripe fruit. Formaldehyde stuffed into preserved eyes, to the point of unflatteringly bloating.

Tom could feel his skin itch, a low flushing heat that burned in his vessels and a strange itchiness under his teeth. It thrummed like magic, except it was the carnal hubris of men. He ignored it, he had a handle on it. It wasn’t an issue until he deemed it so.

The twins broke apart from him, instantly shuffling towards shelves with ingredients. Tom spotted what looked like a decapitated birds head before his lip curled in disgust. This shop was far below him, but he had lowered himself further before for the sake of survival.

(Was it really? Survival? Was what the unconscious cravings of his throat told him? He had done everything within his power to live, and yet here he was. It wasn’t poison, but it very well should have been.

_‘No, it isn’t.’_ a louder part of him protested sharply. _‘What use is all our effort if we’re too weak and sickened to act when the time is right?’_ )

Tom walked to the front counter, keeping his face blank. The man at the desk, browsing a gossip magazine stained with rust on one edge, barely looked up. His stool was tilting to one side, or perhaps the style of leisure came at a risk to decency.

“I want to browse your selection.” Tom spoke quietly, firm and flat although his ears were peeled for any sign of the twins overhearing.

The cashier didn’t seem interested, or perhaps the gossip of modern day have evolved beyond the disgusting propaganda Tom knew all too well.

“Talk to Arch.” The cashier blurted lazily, one crooked thumb over his shoulder beckoned Tom to the small half door that separated the store from the stock. The sheep from the more intelligent survivors of the flock.

Tom didn’t thank the man, but he did brush past him firm enough to jeopardize his balance with the cost of dropping the out of date magazine. Tom didn’t smile, but he sure felt the urge to when the old lazy man spat cursed in a low mumble.

The back of the store didn’t look any cleaner or nicer from the front. The boxes were crates, splintered on the edges from steel forcing the nails to uproot. It looked smuggled, illegal merchandise hidden in plain sight behind a cheaply made air freshener advertising _Norwegian Pine!_

Tom resisted the urge to sneeze, even when he found ‘Arch’ leaning against one of the splintering crates smoking something purple and foul out of a pipe that looked far too exotic for such a... _wonderful_ business.

“Oi,” The other spoke, voice deeper and more hoarse then it should have been for his age. Likely the pipe, the smoke shifting his throat and disfiguring it but the clutches of an addiction were always so lovely. “Watcha doin’ here, brat?”

Tom’s face didn’t shift, Arch scowled and set his pipe down carefully. His teeth were starting to shimmer like mother-of-pearl, dyed lavender on the edges. Tom didn’t know the substance in question, but it smelled sickly like all things did.

“Looking for something.” Tom countered, flat and sounding as exhausted as he felt. “Dreamless sleep.”

“Eh?” The other squinted at him, the wrinkles along his eyes betraying his age despite the soft texture of his skin. A sign of youth potion, treatments that- as far as Tom knew although things could have changed- were illegal. Hadn’t they required blood from those under the magical age?

“Dreamless sleep, eh?” The other, Arch, clicked his tongue, scratching his chin. The sound irritated Tom, although he reacted no further than a slow blink. “I tell you what, I got plenty more of whatever you want. Juice to knock a dragon out.”

Tom nearly twitched. Nearly. “Only dreamless sleep.”

Arch huffed and his hand twitched towards his pipe. He didn’t grab it, but Tom could recognize the action all the same. “So that’s your poison, eh? Ruddy cheap piece of shit, go big or get bloody out I say, but _no,_ drives away all the hags. Ugh, brat. Fine, cough up your silver I’ll crack at it.”

Arch slid to his feet, sliding his feet across the floor in a loud scuffing sound, mumbling and spitting all the same time. Tom followed the stench and kept his face blank. His skin itched and his throat felt raw.

“Here’s your bloody shite.” Arch kicked a crate, fumbling for what looked like a metal crowbar before he smashed the lid off, pulling out what looked like a _beaker_ of something slate grey- maybe blue in better lighting.

Shit quality, likely mixed and cut with other cheaper ingredients. It came in a _beaker_ for God’s sake, like the jugs you got of Butterbeer at the discount grocer.

Tom’s nose twitched ever so slightly as Arch shook it, small frothy white bubbles mixing through the carefully sealed beaker. The wax wasn’t broken.

“Here’s your ruddy tea.” Arch huffed, setting it on top of a nearby table amidst the cigar stubs, “four sickles.”

A steep price for something so poorly made. Tom could likely bargain, but he had a set amount of time before the twins noticed his absence and came looking. Catching him in the back room would only make things worse, so Tom had to quickly take the situation into something he had control over.

A throb in his temple, a thick churning bubble in his gut. Oil and water- Tom felt like vomiting.

“I don’t have coins on me.” Tom made himself speak, careful to not look at the jar to reveal just how much he need- _wanted_ it. “I have something else.”

Arch stared, eyebrows lifting in a condescendingly haughty grin, before it started to sink into something surprised and flat. “Oh yeah?”

“Not here.” Tom choked the words out, they tasted bitter and sour. Maybe _he_ was the thing going rotten in this store. “I’ll show you in the back.”

Arch huffed and jammed his hands in his pocket, slinking down between the creaky crates and splintering floorboards to a thick iron door with bars across the window. The alleyway stunk of feces and something starting to decay. Maybe a dog had taken residency in the filth, maybe the dog had _become_ the filth.

“Yeah?” Arch asked, baring his teeth with something sharp, “You’re outside now, yeah? Watcha say I don’t letcha back in.”

Tom’s face hurt and he kept it flat. His hands trembled but he made sure the man didn’t see. That’s who he was, after all, a man. He looked youthful from illegal remedies, potions with blood and other fluids that reversed appearance at the harm of some prepubescent sniffling brat. It took a special type of individual to stomach that; Tom knew how to find them in the shady bars or those hidden with pregnant wives.

(Tom felt like fucking puking already; it took him months to learn to stomach it.)

“I don’t have coins.” Tom repeated bluntly. Arch’s eyebrows rose and the glimmer of something unspoken sealed itself in a bargain between the two. Tom felt disgusted with himself so innately, he wished he could pretend nothing would ever come of this.

(Tom wondered, with salt burning his eyes, on his cheeks, if this is Hell.)

* * *

 

It always took a moment, a few minutes of wide unseeing eyes and uncontrollable shivers before the world came back in focus. His breath rattled his chest, the shuddering inhale forcing his chest to expand and everything to continue. The cold numbness would pass as all things did, as well as everything else rotten.

“Oi!” Someone shouted, peering into the alleyway with a furrowed brow. Tom winced, pulling his knees up to his chest with a small twitch down his spine.

The stranger approached the ally, sneaking in to squint into the darkness of the overhand. “My word! Boy, are you alright? Don’t you know it’s dangerous down here?”

Tom internally sighed and winced at his poor timing. He slowly lifted his head, throwing a glare in the man’s general direction.

The man was middle aged, a strange mustache that looked more fitting for a ministry monkey worker than a wizard in the alleys of Knockturn. The ensemble of clothing suggested something else as well, likely dirty money in all sorts like that.

Tom was already riding the highs of revulsion, self loathing twisting its way in a wild untamable beast which reared back and whispered into his tired ear, _‘he has coins, then.’_

Tom’s mouth twitched, he saw the man’s eyes flicker southern.

“I’m fine.” Tom croaked, voice a low breathy rasp. The man winced second hand, approaching more out of concern than fear of grime to taint his leather shoes. “You don’t look fine, my boy. Do you need help? A hand?”

A hand extended, held out politely. Eyes roamed over Tom’s clothing, catching on the stains both old and forming. The hand didn’t retract.

“I’m fine.” Tom repeated, then took the hand daintily, not pulling back even as the man squeezed perhaps a tad bit tighter than the norm. His thumb and finger wrapped around the knobby bones of Tom’s wrist, a shackle of blood and skin.

“My dear,” The man grimaced slightly, eyes flickering towards something dead in the corner of the ally, “my name is Balazir Doge, who might you be?”

Tom noticed, that _Doge_ didn’t release his grip around his wrist.

“Nobody of importance,” Tom croaked out ugly, not wincing as his body ached, “unless you care.”

Doge hesitated a moment too long to ever provide certainty in Tom’s mind.

“Knockturn isn’t nice.” Tom whispered, eyes flickering to the grip- likely to bruise at this rate. “Why are you here, _Doge.”_

The grip tightened. It would bruise.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Doge responded in a lower voice, eyes scanning over Tom’s clean but mangled and knotted hair. Messy and gnarled at the roots from unfortunate treatment. “You likely could find work in better areas, my dear.”

Tom’s smile exposed all teeth, loose in their sockets and rattling like the hiss in his chest.

“I ah, search for potential clients in a selection of the taverns in the area.” Doge cleared his throat quickly, “a worker for the ministry, you see.”

That didn’t explain why he was lurking in the shadows of a darkened alley, why he was so eager to step into the shade to offer a hand to a child.

The man’s eyes flickered up at the stone building, maybe he recognized the apothecary for what it was, or maybe he saw something in Tom himself.

Doge released his wrist, instead working his way up toward his elbow, then higher.

(Tom didn’t shiver, he _refused_ to flinch away.)

(He could manage it he could _bloody fucking manage it.)_

A stroke of thumb along Tom’s sharp jawline, around the sunken hollows of his cheeks- already filling out with fat. One of Doge’s hands could likely smother his entire face with the barest of efforts.

“I think,” Doge started, sounding strangely out of breath, “that you need some help, my dear. Here here- take this.”

Doge’s grip didn’t shift, but his free hand dug into his pockets to retrieve a small coin purse made of velvet. He seemed to realize a moment too late how impossible the task would be to fish out coins with only one hand and the tight drawstring. Instead of removing the calluses on the pad of his fingers from tracing now the shell of Tom’s ear, he snuck his left hand under Tom’s coat- to deposit the coin purse on Tom’s inner pocket.

_‘Don’t move’_ Tom hissed to himself, skin crawling and vomit burning on the back of his tongue. _‘Play along.’_

Doge’s hand retreated far too slowly, before diving back into one of his waistcoat pockets to fetch a small card of stationary. High quality, bold with fine font displaying words Tom couldn’t see from the angle.

“My contact.” Doge spoke, voice hoarse and partially strained, “It ah, nifty piece of magic. It ah, if I am within the alley it will...point you to my location. For...consultation. I ah, do enjoy the local taverns.”

Tom’s eyes didn’t look away. Doge’s hand felt like boiling poison, eroding his skin with every touch. “It looks like I may be seeing you again, then.”

Doge exhaled with the smallest shiver, then stepped away from his indecently close position. “Buy yourself something precious, my dear.”

He departed, stiff in gait until he hastily vanished from the sight of the ally. Tom instantly reached toward his face, clawing with short rugged nails against the spots where the man had touched his skin. Dried salt flaked away, like snowflakes onto the ally ground.

The coin purse felt heavy, thick with money that could refill his stock for _ages._ Tom greedily fished it out, mouth salivating at the Pavlovian instinct where money equated to food.

(Tom wouldn’t be able to eat for hours, not with how sick he felt.)

The coins were tarnished and dirty, a few shining within the bundle. Copper and silver- Knuts and Sickles. Maybe one galleon within the pot- more money than Tom remembered having in a long, _long_ time.

Tom leant back and exhaled brokenly. He should stretch it out, be frugal with what little he had even as drool threatened to slip down the tracks that had long since dried already. Tom knew his face likely was disgusting, and yet he had been given... _charity._

Tom hated pity, but at this point he needed to take the gift horse and not question it. In this case, the gifted sickles that could buy him an entire _crate_ of the shit potion in stock.

Tom hung his head, shivered, and ducked quietly into the store once again.

* * *

 

The twins didn’t seem to notice his absence, but the clock on the wall spoke that it had been only around twenty minutes since he slipped through the back door. Time moved so slowly, when every second lasted much longer than it should. The sink in the back of the store bled rusted water, but anything was better than the grime across Tom’s flesh. A smirking smug look from Arch didn’t help, nor did his raised eyebrow when Tom deposited the small sack of coins and left the store with a dozen beakers of caravan potions lab dreamless sleep, stashed in a small bottomless bag he had been given back from his previous belongings. Nostalgia, of the old times he explained to the auror in charge of him. A bag that although seemed harmless, was now pinned to his thigh under his clothing with metal spikes and blood- the cilice Sirius never commented on.

Tom _itched_ to return, but wandering back from the shady crevices of Knockturn took time with the two twins bickering nervously over borderline illegal potion ingredients. Nothing compared to the literal crime attached to Tom’s side.

They kept walking, out of the fog and towards the fresh air. The business card in Tom’s pocket burned the entire stroll.

* * *

 

“Where are they?” Fred muttered, squinting above the crowd to try and spot anyone.

“Oi!” George grinned, pointing in one direction, “found Ronnikins! Over at ice cream!”

The two whooped, grabbing Tom tightly to drag him through the wades of people. They parted, like Moses and Tom found himself biting his tongue at the irony.

The ice cream parlour was of course, crowded. The splash of red hair betrayed itself to be Ron, however the accompaniment quickly became recognizable. Hermione eagerly was flipping through a book, still glossy with its tags. Harry was curiously prodding what looked to be a sherbert vampire bat, which was snapping in protest at his spoon as if the charmed creature actually was sentient. Tom would have long since stabbed the ruddy thing.

“Hey!” Fred waved, hopping the small fence. George grabbed Tom’s wrist- (Tom flinched but neither paid it any attention) and forcibly threw him over the fence into the less cluttered area of the outside patio.

“There you are!” Ron huffed, chocolate smeared on the corner of his mouth. “He didn’t run off? Shame, you coulda’ cursed ‘em.”

“Ron!” Hermione hissed with a glare, “did you find what you needed?”

“Yep, not a problem.” Fred dismissed, sneaking forward to boldly nip the ear off the squabbling sherbert bat. “Oo, didn’t reckon you were an orange bloke, Harry.”

Harry shrugged, not upset with his bat at all. “It looked interesting.”

George came back, dragging two chairs. He plopped one near Hermione who scooched to the side. The other was on the other side of Harry, between him and a girl Tom hadn’t looked at yet.

Fred hopped into the seat near Hermione, George casually flopping over the armrest to lay in his twin’s lap. Nobody acted like it was odd, perhaps the level of physical affection was something more permitted in this time.

Tom daintily sat in his chair, keeping his spine straight and his eyes unseeing forward directly between Hermione’s critical eye and Ron’s grudging glare. He had already made his opinions known in regard of how Tom should be treated.

“So, uh.” Harry started awkwardly, “how’s your summer, Luna.”

Tom didn’t look, he kept himself composed. His skin still burned, his body still felt _wrong,_ canvas stretched too tight over a wooden frame.

He stared between the two, and Tom let himself float.

* * *

 

(People always said that rats were the ones to feed on vermin, the ones that feasted on the lowest level of society and brought plagues to others.

Tom never found that fitting.

Why was he, a damn _orphan rat,_ when his greatest desire was to survive?

Why was _he_ doomed to die over the selfish nature of others? Tom wasn’t going to allow himself to starve to death, he would do everything necessary to ensure he lived.

Tom wasn’t a rat, he was a scavenger.)

* * *

 

“-Om.” Someone said, gently and softly and very curiously. “That’s a nice name. I haven’t seen you before, are you new to Hogwarts?”

Tom snapped back into his skull, whiplash ringing a headache behind his eyes. He turned his head slowly- feeling small bubbles pop in his neck with the stiffness of his posture.

The girl there had her head tilted curiously, a small melodic lilt to her voice. Her eyes were wide, a starry blue that was slightly darkened with the dim lighting, blonde hair held back with bumblebee styled hair ties.

Tom stiffened, his entire skeleton locking into place. His stomach tilted, his eyes widened. He could feel, the individual beads of sweat that pinpricked so quickly along his upper lip. The unflattering moments he knew in himself as well as the thrum of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Fight or Flight; _live or die._

“Hi,” the girl smiled distantly, looking at her starburst of colours in her little ice cream cup. “I’m Luna. You look very out of place here, did you transfer from somewhere?”

Tom said nothing, the tendons in his hands bulging with the strength behind holding it back.

(He was so _tired,_ so _stressed._ The tide of emotions and fear washed the world into shades of white and grey.)

“Yes!” Hermione blurted out of place, “he ah, he’s staying the summer with us!”

“Oh,” The girl smiled at him, “That’s nice. I’m going to get more ice cream, daddy said he’d meet me in a little while anyways, he’s talking to a new intern at the quibbler.”

Tom couldn’t breathe, he could feel sweat trickling down the nape of his neck.

The girl looked at him with big blue eyes, and bright blonde hair. He couldn’t hear an accent, but _you couldn’t trust anyone they’d steal him away in a heartbeat; freak, unnatural, demon-child, experiment-._

“I wonder what I should get next,” Luna hummed, frowning at her bowl, “would you like to come with me, Tom?”

_No, no, no_

“I’d rather not.” His voice was strained, forced casual and clipped. He could see Hermione’s eyebrows raise at the sound of _something_ off.

_Don’t trust them, don’t trust a bloody Kraut. They’ll sell you out they’ll kill yer bleedin’ mother._

“Really?” Luna said, eyes looking downcast as she stood slowly, her chair scraping as she offered one hand with a small smile, “I insist. I’ll pay, my treat.”

_Yeh hear it, kid? They’ll take ya, and they’ll rip yer skull open and see what makes you tick you little bloody freak! Yer ‘ear me! They’ll rip you apart you li-_

“Come with me,” Luna urged.

Blonde hair, blue eyes.

Tom knew he made a noise, small and nearly silent from the back of his throat. He could feel Harry startle, the rub of fabric on cheap plastic chairs.

_They’ll rip fresh meat like you apart like a fu-_

The table shattered, impounding inwards like a giant stepped on it. The girl, Luna, screamed as the impact knocked her off her feet- collapsing to the floor under the weight of broken wood. The bright cloth awning shriveled through a sudden shift- hot and cold, heat and ice with a rattling _snap_ as thermal shock exploded.

Glasses rained in shrapnel, loud bangs of ice and metal warping like gunfire. A blonde haired girl on the ground-

“Wegghen!” Tom _spat,_ shrieking in poorly accented German. It warbled as he jerked himself backwards, eyes locked on the struggling Kraut. He heard they had been using children, luring them out. Slaughtering entire cities, stealing families in the night. “Wegghen!”

Another thermal shock, his skull hurt and his sinuses felt numb with the sudden chill. Snow was gathering on the ground- a table over was on fire.

The alley of Diagon screamed, shoppers rushing away from the quickly spiraling out of control situation. More magic, a larger _snap!_ As the railing itself warped into dangerously sharp points.

“Luna!” Hermione screamed, scrambling to her feet, eyes flitting between Tom who was looking more feral than sane.

“Harry!” Ron shouted, tugging his leg out from underneath the internally smashed table.

Harry seemed to understand, because the next thing Tom could barely comprehend, someone tackled him sideways onto the ground.

(Either the adrenaline or stress of the day was enough for the impact to knock him clean cold- or maybe it was the metal corner his temple slammed into on the way down.)

* * *

 

After the bombing, the worst night yet, the sky was grey with dirt. Yellow, like tarnished brass, clouded in the sky.

High above in the rising sun, there were birds. Like the gulls near the coast, circling for fresh fish. The fishermen hadn’t brought back seafood in a long time. Instead, the harbour was filled with military boats, bringing in  covered blankets that sometime already were stinking.

Tom watched the birds, too large for normal species, soar on the thermals twisting through the ruins of some neighbourhoods.

Vultures weren’t common in Britain, in fact they had been extinct for as long as Tom knew. A lack of big game, a food supply unable to sustain them.

He saw them dive, flocking and soaring with wings large and brown over sites trailing ash and char.

Tom wondered, if by the end of this, he too, would be a vulture.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!](https://discord.gg/SVrMbMS)


	6. Flatus vocis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Crina decides that sometimes enough is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was bored today and in all honesty, I have no idea how I did this either.

Tom was slowly growing more insane by the hour. The lack of stimuli, the carefully monitored eyes and wards that washed over his skin like a jolt of electricity.

He hated it, far far more than he would ever admit. He allowed it to slide off him, a guarded calm expression as internally he seethed over the audacity of it all.

Hermione Granger seemed to be the only one recognizing his struggles. She certainly wasn’t a friend, but she had been treating him differently ever since the excursion to Diagon, and the _incident_ as everyone was so quietly stating. The _incident,_ being Luna Lovegood, a pureblood soon-to-be fourth year receiving broken bones in both legs under the weight of crushed concrete and a large decorative table. Since then, Tonks had been quite accommodating in avoiding a specific phenotype involving blue eyes and blonde hair. How _wonderful._

Tom, as one commonly does, was nearly reaching combustion in the forced casualness of the communal living room. Sirius Black, his excellent caretaker watched him with a barely repressed grimace. Hermione was staring at him firmly, both Ron and Harry attempting to ignore the increasing tension with a game of exploding snap. Another round, and perhaps Tom would be the one to snap instead.

“Okay,” Hermione huffed, her hands clenching into fists to somehow inspire an internal sense of confidence. “I- ah-.” She licked her lip, eyebrow furrowing before she boldly stated, “One plus One equals Two.”

Harry and Ron, timidly, stopped their game to look at her a bit concerned.

“You alright there?” Ron kindly asked, “books touched you a bit too much?”

Sirius didn’t say anything, but he too looked ready to fetch the poor girl a drink as if she had been overworking herself.

Tom felt the buzz of energy in his mind stir at the question, a gentle invitation into an argument he could burn. He looked at her, evaluating the competitive gleam in her eye.

Tom didn’t smile, but he did smoothly counter, “one plus one equals three.”

Now all eyes were on him, pondering the notion that he had finally lost his mind.

Hermione didn’t light up, but she did cross her legs and look at him with some sort of academic interest. “The number one has already been assigned mathematical significance and its value properly appreciated and accepted.” She puffed.

Tom barely looked at her. “Give me statements.”

Ron looked at Sirius, who looked at the red head in dismay.

“I don’t understand what’s going on.” Ron blinked slowly, “Harry? Mate? Any of this making sense to you?”

“Not a word.” Harry mused, pondering the cards on the table.

“The mathematical value of one is certain,” Hermione started. “The principles of addition are certain. That entails that the mathematical value of one and addition create the value of two.”

Tom _finally_ turned to look at her. Something shifting in his eye. “If I were to not believe the value of one, nor the principle of mathematical addition, I should then conclude that the value of two is not possible to understand.”

Hermione twitched. “No, they’re independent.”

“Relativism isn’t an applicable approach.” Tom snapped back sourly, looking almost disappointed. “I thought you _knew_ philosophy.”

Hermione _flushed,_ and looked downcast quickly, ashamed of her hasty word choice.

“Above that,” Tom murmured quietly, glancing downwards at where his foot twitches every so often. “The idea of mathematics is something intangible and thus, subjective. It is _ridiculous_ to entertain analysis over intangible subjects.”

“I caught one word there,” Harry confided in Ron, “they’re talking about ghosts.”

Hermione stiffened sharply. “If you want to discuss magical theory-.”

“For God’s sake, that’s far above you.” Tom snapped viciously. “You play with the idea of _numbers,_ I take it you’re a fan of Arithmancy?”

“You aren’t?” Hermione huffed, looking insulted.

“I tested out.” Tom smiled sharply, his eyes shadowed by the crease in his brow. “It was a waste of my time and ventures. I found it not necessary.”

“Un-.” Hermione spluttered, “It- it is the concrete foundation for constructing _spells-.”_

“Based on the subjective values of language!” Tom spat back, practically bristling. “You’re pathetic notion of One plus One- tell me, _Granger,_ duex et deux font quatre, is that _true_ or _false?”_

Hermione’s mouth opened, jaw lifting and closing as she spluttered over a response, “I don’t speak French!”

“Good! Then you comprehend the absolute _insignificant_ value of words! Words are concepts constructed by individual societies, the only value of words or numbers are the significance _we_ assign over them- do you agree that in certain cultures there is no existence of the number zero?’

“I- yes!” Hermione shouted.

“Then you should understand that such notion or meaning assigned to the number two could equally be assigned to three! _One plus one equals three!”_

The two were nearly panting, Hermione’s chest heaving while Tom’s hands had taken to uncontrollable twitching. His cheekbone was shifting as well, as if ready to spasm in his frustration.

“That doesn’t account for Arithmancy!” Hermione composed herself, speaking in a flat tone that wavered slightly towards the end. “Where the value of numbers is assigned to consonants and syllables-.”

“Which are societal constructs.” Tom deadpanned. “Different languages use alternative ways to structure sentences, as well as the removal or addition of entire letters which cause your mathematical reasoning to be _void.”_

“It’s how you make spells!” Hermione snapped shortly. “That’s how it’s always been!”

Tom’s smile dug deeper, contorting his face like a snarl. “You are _insufferable._ You want to understand just how _asinine_ your petty views of logic are? _Fine.”_

Tom stood, a sudden sharp movement as he stalked a few steps forward, standing in the center of the room with his eyes locked on the girl sitting at a lower elevation to him.

“Accio,” Tom spoke slowly, voice deep and seething, “in your basic Arithmancy courses, you assign numerical values per letter. Accio in order of the English alphabet is then assigned the values, _one, three, three, nine, fifteen._ If you use your addition then division- which is what your basic introductory _generally_ uses, you have a sum of thirty one. If you use the _Latin_ alphabet with groupings of letters assigned per number, you have _one, three, three, nine, six.”_

Hermione was quickly losing her angry flush, intrigue and guilt colouring her face instead.

“Following Latin based spell construction-” Tom was going off on his tirade, “we sum these values and then break them into a single number equation- which would be _two plus two equals four,_ which _oh_ wonderful abides your construct of mathematical value.”

Tom’s eyes sharpened, something delightful and wicked playing in his mind. “However, if I were to alter this value into something _impossible,_ shifting the value into something that does _not_ equate to the same value- the word _cito,_ similar in definition yet different root structure. Do you _agree,_ that _Cito_ should _not work in place of Accio?”_

Hermione couldn’t make noise, instead she made a strangled croaking noise.

“Better yet,” Tom continued on his tirade, seeming to enjoy himself, “let’s work under the presumption that the word _flowerpot_ is not equal in value and assignment to an _entirely different language,_ and now somehow a first person conjugation of a verb as well-.”

“What?” Sirius was croaking out, looking just as mystified and confused as Harry felt. “I- _flowerpot?”_

“The idea of words and their associated meaning is something purely _cognitive,”_ Tom ignored the man, gazing at Hermione intensely. “If I were to cognitively assign the noun _flowerpot_ my own understanding of an entirely different selection of sound, I too could shift the idea of spells _entirely.”_

“That’s not possible.” Hermione finally managed to croak out, looking as if in the midst of an existential crisis. “That- that sort of- magic doesn’t work like that-.”

Tom’s lip curled. He outstretched one hand, contorted in a claw in the general direction of a decorative pillow across the room.

“ _Flowerpot,”_ He spoke, spitting the word as if it was something foul, “ _-pillow.”_

The pillow shot to his hand, and Tom swayed slightly with a small grimace.

“What.” Ron started, eyes bulging out. “ _What.”_

Sirius jumped to his feet, looking ready to tackle Tom to the floor.

“No!” Hermione looked on the verge of screaming, both hands fisting her hair and tugging on the roots, “I- _you can’t do that._ You- that is _against_ the rules set in place and established by the idea of spellcasting I- _no.”_

“He broke magic.” Harry spoke numbly. “He just bloody _broke magic.”_

“You said you know philosophy,” Tom hissed, bending in half to reach Hermione’s level in height. His voice thickened in the level of his frustration, a strange lyrical style change in emphasis as Cockney stirred its low social class- head, “Yer self-entitled, dog an’ _tick_ , _Hampton Wick.”_

The door opened, a woman’s head peered in with a somewhat flat expression. She frowned ever so slightly, her hair pulled back into a hasty and somewhat styled bun.

“Oh,” She said, flatly and unimpressed yet somehow not alarmed by the mounting hysteria, “is this a bad time?”

Sirius flinched back with a meek noise, sitting quickly on the couch as if to be a smaller target. Crina’s nose wrinkled slightly, although her face smoothed as she observed Tom’s fury and Hermione’s pale complexion. “Oh dear, are you scaring the children again?”

Tom craned his neck halfway, glaring at her with a frozen snarl and the eyes of someone a minute and a knife away from murder. “Bugger _off.”_

Crina clicked her tongue, stepping through the threshold casually. “Oh, you’ve given the poor girl an existential crisis. What did you ask?”

Tom’s neck bulged slightly, a thin rope of muscle protruding as he tensed his body to control himself. “The concept of words and numbers.”

Crina nodded slowly, “that’s an interesting one. Does truth exist without evidence?”

Tom exhaled quickly through his nose. “The idea of morality and right and wrong are not practical concepts.”

Crina nodded politely. “That’s a fascinating one. Mr. Black, would you like to contribute to the discussion? I’m sure you’re perspective would be _delectable.”_

Sirius paled. He sat up, then stood in a single jerky movement. His footsteps were loud thuds on the floor, until he left the room and ventured further down the hall.

“There bloody _is_ good and evil.” Ron muttered under his breath, scowling at the table. “Bloody monsters.”

“Oh?” Crina asked, elevating her voice slightly higher so Ron could realize (with a shiver of shame) that he had been heard. “Would you like to extrapolate on that idea, Mr. Weasley?”

“Uh.” Ron said wisely, choking on his words.

“There is no such thing as good and evil.” Tom countered with something flat, determined and...secure. Unfaltering, knowing without hesitation that what he said, was something set stronger than conceptualization. “Only power, and others too…”

“-weak to seek it.” Harry finished in a small strained noise.

Tom’s eyes met his, locking on in a wordless soundless question. Harry twitched, feeling more exposed than he ever wanted to be.

“Come on guys,” Harry broke the eye contact, standing quickly to try and corral his friends, “let’s uh...leave Tom to his…”

Harry didn’t finish his sentence- they were already leaving.

Harry felt Tom’s eyes on him all the way until he managed out of sight.

Crina settled herself casually, taking the seat Tom had sat in prior to her visiting. Tom bristled, recognizing that the only reasonable seating now was the single armchair Hermione had been occupying just prior. That, or he could walk across the entire room to sit an absurdly far distance away- he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of it.

“I find it quite lovely that you have such obvious fascination.” Crina began delicately, reaching into her always present bag to pluck out- much to his surprise, a package of smokes. “Would you like one?”

She made no movement to get up, nor to throw it at him. Tom bristled once more, weighing the benefits of ignoring the tantalizing offering, or having to grovel at her hand for a forbidden gift.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Crina rolled her eyes, setting the package down gently next to her. She fished out something else, long and ornate. It was shorter than a wand, but only just; Tom realized that he had recognized matrons wielding such things with tails of smoke following them.

“That’s a bit long.” Tom remarked dryly, eyes flickering over the accessory- likely bone or horn from the slight impurities along the length. “Are you going to the theatre?”

Crina glanced down at the cigarette holder, frowning slightly as if disappointed. “I was hoping it was something racy, considering I’m lacking the elbow length gloves.”

Tom eyed the package, still sealed in a thin plastic package. Crina fumbled with the foreign device, looking slightly annoyed with the intricacies of the (now) antique.

“Dare I ask how you came to own one?” Tom asked dryly, finally standing to prowl forward. His temper had soothed in the face of Crina’s intimidating intellect- fumbling with a hollow stick like it was a great secret.

“I’ve been investigating.” Crina began to murmurer lowly, almost guiltily. “I’d be a poor professional if I hadn’t researched to better suit my patients.”

“Your _research,”_ Tom rolled the word tauntingly, “is getting me fags and wasting my time.”

Crina’s nose twitched. “My _research,_ involves you showing me how to use this blasted thing. Also, in this era what you call ‘fag’ is now a social slur. If you repeat it, I fear I’ll have to punish you accordingly.”

Tom ignored her- it was unlikely she could dish out any sort of punishment at all. He _did_ make a note of the turn of phrase, such a slip could be disastrous in the wrong setting. He pondered, plucking the metal lighter to turn paper ablaze, how much had changed in his absence.

He loaded Crina’s holder, securing it in place as well as the second filter. He didn’t laugh, but he knew he wouldn’t forget Crina’s wrecked wheezing and coughing as smoke invaded her lungs and brought tears to her eyes.

Tom, maintaining eye contact, pulled so harshly a third of his stick burned in a small crackle of paper and nicotine. Crina scowled as well as she could with teary eyes.

“I heard you were shopping,” Crina spoke, voice hoarse and a far cry from the usual smooth tone she forced herself to maintain.

Tom said nothing, closing his eyes and relaxing as fire and poison stained his fingertips.

“Well,” Crina continued wistfully, “I was enjoying my evening. I had just drawn a bath, you see. To me those are...ah...considering my audience, perhaps I should say that my baths are _heavenly_ to me. Truly, a sacred moment of unity between relaxation, and the stress headaches my patients gift me.”

Tom flicked the cigarette butt on the floor, watching in boredom as the ember grew- _nearly_ catching flame on the threadbare carpet, before it extinguished itself in a tuft of rancid smoke.

“Or well,” Crina shrugged, twirling the cigarette in her hand, forming smoke trails in the air in front of her. “Perhaps I would have enjoyed such a thing, if not for your wardens _intruding_ so forcefully. Do you not feel guilty, Tom?” Crina asked, eyes wide with fake innocence, “that poor, _poor_ Albus encroached upon my watery temple?”

Tom snorted under his breath, a foul dirty sound that instantly filled him with self loathing. Crina smiled ever so slightly, satisfied with her barbs of humour before she choked on smoke and left herself wheezing once more.

“You’re doing that purely for show.” Tom noted, understanding the appeal yet also finding her pathetically idiotic to reveal such an obvious flaw with her demeanor.

Crina looked miserable, scowling at the burning cylinder as if _it_ was at fault for her decisions. “Obviously. How else am I going to succeed in my malevolent ambitions in destroying the social hierarchy to reinstate a less aggravating world?”

Tom did not laugh. He exhaled quickly through his nose, but he did not laugh.

“Unfortunately, I do indeed have a purpose for trespassing.”

Obviously, Crina had explained before that she did not like being here unless she had to.

“I have tests for you,” Crina explained, extinguishing the butt of her cigarette with her pointed shoe. “Various types, academic, reflex, processing as well as magical core. I know, simple things truly. I am willing to wager half of my wine cellar that you are not dyslexic.”

“Only half?” Tom asked with a small quirk of his eyebrow.

“You’re not worth all my wine.” Crina said simply, tapping the top sheaf of paper. “These tests are average based through all of primary education, through to Hogwart’s curriculum that Albus was so kind to provide for me. I added in international testing grounds to see your score in subjects not generally taught in the Hogwrts Ciriculum- of course these are only the paper based since I am not a licensed test evaluate for practical work. After that, we can go further into other informational records. This stack would take a lesser man a few hours. I’ll give you one.”

Tom eyed the bundle, it was quite a bit.

“Feel free to remove the reading comprehension tests,” Crina tapped the stack, “I’ll be testing you on my own, through the battlefield of verbal combat. I’ll be back in an hour, I do enjoy vexing Mr. Black.”

Crina stood, deposited the stack, and gave a small casual wave as she slipped out of the room. Tom knew the papers had anti-cheating wards, perhaps even runes woven into the fibers somewhere. They felt thick and firm, ministry level with a...phrasing which led Tom to believe it must have come from an international operation.

He plucked the fountain pen Crina had left him, much more functional than a quill.

Fifty eight minutes of scribbling, he finished the stack.

* * *

 

“Albus!” Minerva McGonagall spoke in a hushed tone, frantically rolling through the parchment provided for her. The first floor meeting room had been cleared away, a small quasi map on the wall that constantly updated based on their information. The majority of their information was stored there, hidden in very secure boxes and shelves.

“Albus! These results!” Minerva continued, staring at them in partial awe. They were...they were  _extraordinary._

A knock on the door and Albus’ weary sigh alerted Minerva, that perhaps there was more to this story than she could see.

The door opened slowly, a middle aged woman with a youthful face stood in the threshold. Her eyes skimmed over Minerva dismissively, landing on Albus.

“I presume you’ve ignored the results.” She hummed, her voice a practiced flat tone that prickled Minerva’s neck. Whenever she had heard such an inflection, it generally came with scoffing or aggravated barbs from her students. Someone who embraced such a….a...a _irritating_ tone was outlandish.

Albus rubbed his nose, shifting the glasses on his face slightly before he stood slowly. “Minerva?” He asked, offering one arm tiredly.

“Of course!” She rushed, accepting his arm as if to support him. The woman didn’t seem interested, or perhaps she cared so little for age with her...her _potion fake face,_ that the needs of the older were beyond her.

Albus more led Minerva, than Minerva led him. Up the stairs, then some more. Towards a smaller communal room that Minerva remembered a few members preferring to spend time in, on the assortment of couches and chairs over the larger rectangular shaped room.

The younger woman walked in first, uncaring if they followed. Already Minerva was biting back choice words.

They slipped through the doorway, Albus instantly taking a lopsided armchair missing one carved foot. Minerva settled herself nearby on a lumpy couch, sniffing in disdain as the woman decided to settle herself on a- _clearly,_ transfigured chair more similar to a throne than something humble.

“Hello,” the woman began, in the same flat tone although her eyes finally focused on Minerva with jarring accuracy, “I am Mind Healer Dimitriu. I am the Overseer of Nurmengard Castle, as well as the Convener of the International Committee of Magical Cognitive Research and Health. I understand that the UK is currently not a member of the ICMCRH, however due to my residency and multiple patients spanning global, it is necessary information to provide.”

Minerva stiffened in alarm, looking over at Dumbledore who had the smallest wince frozen on his face.

“I- excuse me?” Minerva whispered in alarm, “ _Nurmengard?”_

“It’s a recent position.” Mind Healer Dimitriu said equally flat. “The political Premier experienced an unexplained psychotic episode. I hear he is still in recovery, of course not under my care. The Austrian Ministry of Magical Conduct assigned me formal international certification for the activities of Nurmengard Castle.”

Minerva leaned back in her chair, feeling quite faint.

“I always knew you would achieve much, Crina, dear.”’ Albus spoke, his voice soft in his age.

Crina- her first name it must be, smiled ever so flatly. “Of course, Albus. And yet,” She inhaled, reclining in her seat as if perplexed by something sitting before her, “you requested I perform a full diagnostic review over my own patient, share the results of said review, and when the academic performance is on display you seem to...repudiate, the admission of my client into your school?”

Minerva quickly looked down at the scroll still clenched between her fingers.

“We had not agreed on this.” Albus spoke quietly.

“We hadn’t.” Crina agreed, looking almost excited by the conversation. “You _mandated_ I perform a complete diagnostic on _personality disorders_ . I know you were anticipating something quite horrid, Albus. Perhaps you should look at the results and tell _me_ what is missing?”

Minerva scanned through the document all over again, shuddering at the number scoring and registry along most performance tests.

“The boy is unwell.” Dumbledore spoke.

“He isn’t, and that’s your problem.” Crina’s smile didn’t meet the cool flatness of her eyes. “You have little understanding of the mind, Albus. You already have labeled the child as a monster, and yet there is no diagnosis to be made for Antisocial, Narcissistic, Borderline, Schizoid, _or_ Bipolar personality disorder. In fact, it appears that only _negligence_ has left him in the state he is currently exhibiting.”

Albus aged, his hand running against the side of his face tiredly. “Crina, you cannot possibly-.”

“My client,” Crina started, cutting him off instantly, “has a highly functioning declarative memory, as well as processing abilities far above that of his age. His cognitive reasoning skills challenge that of an adult, his emotional intelligence is _above average, Albus,_ and his stimuli decoding time are _astounding.”_

Crina pointed at the sheaf in Minerva’s hands. “You will see that not only are his academic performances suitable for the curriculum he has learned, but his alternative studies he has pursued out of _boredom_ already surpass the minimum for international testing for his age. If you allocated proper supplies or even materials, my client could _easily_ take his NEWTS by the following summer. Instead, you suggest I _lock him up in Nurmengard Castle.”_

Minerva inhaled in horror, jerking away from Albus who looked far too tired for the discussion.

“Albus.” Minerva whispered in horror, feeling more stunned as the Headmaster merely sighed into his hand.

Minerva settled herself, and made eye contact with Crina.

“Excellent.” Crina said calmly, as if she had been waiting for this the entire time. “I find it necessary to inform you that my client has, what I suspect to be, an autoimmune disorder that has damaged his current ability to defend against minor diseases.”

Minerva nodded slowly, trying not to shudder under the intimidating woman’s gaze. “Madam Pomfrey, our resident Mediwitch, is well suited for any sort of ailment.”

“I know.” Crina said calmly. “I suggest, that my client be housed outside of your dorm system. Your hospital wing provides a selection of individual patient rooms which can easily be outfitted to suit his needs.”

Minerva’s eyebrows rose, “but, the class schedule-.”

“Can be adjusted.” Crina consoled her, “admittedly, I believe there will be a selection of extracurricular coursework for international academic pursuits. I also, wish to ask Albus to return to me my client’s _wand.”_

The room settled into a heavy, cold atmosphere once more.

“Crina-.” Albus spoke, his voice hoarse.

“The episode you contacted me for was a single prompted event.” Crina clarified flatly. “Such repeats are unlikely. If you would prefer, I can ask my client to come in the room.”

“He’s here?” Minerva asked, licking her lower lip nervously, “I’d like to speak with him.”

“Wonderful.” Crina blinked, waving her wand. The door nearest her creaked open, an individual jerkily rising from some sort of casual lounging near the wall.

“Oh.” Minerva said.

Tom Riddle’s eyes flickered over Albus dismissively, settling on Minerva with something unreadable. He held one hand out, palm up patiently.

“His wand, Albus.” Crina repeated, “you’ve been unethically withholding my client’s _belongings_ long enough.”

Albus bowed his head in defeat.

* * *

 

His wand felt odd in his hand after he had gone so long without it. As familiar as his knife, or bag. As important to him as his journal.

Tom wasn’t an idiot, he knew by the tired look on Albus’ face that Crina had done him a great service in getting him enrolled. It was something he truthfully hadn’t thought he’d achieve- he imagined being locked up for a long time now.

It would be...odd, returning to Hogwarts. Not to the dungeons, but to some private room by the Hospital Wing. Classes changing depending on his performance, on his interest.

Crina had provided him a list of various courses permitted by international students, things that would rely on essay and written format with a practical towards the end of the year that he’d have to show up for appointment for. Beyond that, he’d be taking general classes if they appeared to challenge his intellect enough to keep him active.

There was one thing, that he was _not_ that excited for.

Crina was intelligent, she was well aware that Tom could not be left alone to his own devices. He couldn’t be... _released_ to roam the streets alone. He was still a security risk, but he had enough personal rights and the ability of autonomy to not be pinned down like a _dog._

So, Crina casually offered an alternative that Dumbledore found acceptable, and the headmistress found horrific.

Tom didn’t care- what was one more handmade tattoo rune to the other he had imprinted on his arm?

* * *

 

_Before_

* * *

 

It wasn’t one of his worst ideas, but it was far from his best.

Tom knew that the focus of Ancient Runes were far beyond him, he had taken the course and looked into supplementary materials when the content became too dull, but he was playing with fire. Literally.

The nearest newspaper store was destroyed, raided by the crime that had increased. All of the men went off to war, all of the boys went off to war. Where were the policemen? The fire department? The law or the jurisdiction? The illegal selling of food stamps, of batons and knives taken off corpses. The wagons filled with rations, being hauled away by nameless people to sell to the hungry women on street corners wishing they were swollen with babe. Perhaps then, they would be fed and survive if not the child.

Tom wasn’t fortunate like that. He had tried getting into Diagon alley through London almost every night, every time he tried it was sealed shut. The last time he tried magic, it left him crippled on the ground in a pile of his own fluids. He hadn’t tried since, not foolish enough to test a ministry level ward _twice._

He was on his own for now, but magic wasn’t only defined as the ability of a wand.

He didn’t want to use wandless magic, what little he could manage that was. If the ward crashed so heavily on his wand, would it smite him with an accident as well? Could it detect his every movements?

He wasn’t safe in the eyes of the muggles, and he wasn’t an ally in the eyes of the wizarding world. The Orphanage had long since been abandoned, raided by hungry homeless men looking for anything to eat or sell.

Tom would be a prize in their eyes, so Tom made sure they would never look at him again.

“Notice-me-not.” Tom whispered to himself, over and over as if the simple mantra would soothe the shaking in his hands. He wished he hadn’t used his last cigarettes up a few days ago, he would kill for something to steady his nerves.

He held the needle carefully, flickering it in and out of the candle flame. He’d have to find a new one soon, this one was shrinking until soon it would be nothing but a stump.

In and out he passed the needle, careful to not let any dust touch the tip. He’d have to find a new sewing kid after this, but if this worked then he’d be fine for however long it took for the ink to bleed out.

He pulled it out of the flame, letting it cool before he fished for the sewing thread wound round a spool. He looped it once, twice, six times around the end of the needle, close enough to the tip only a single stem of straw could be pricked before caught in the tight bound string.

“Okay,” Tom murmured to himself, dipping the needle and string into the inkwell at his side, mixed with muggle black printing ink and the last bits of his ink from Hogwarts. It swished darkly, quickly staining the cotton thread and sinking deep into its pores.

Letting it soak, Tom fished for the bit of charcoal he had, twisting his arm around to trace carefully the rune pictured in his spellbook, faintly visible in the light of his stumpy candle. He had to redraw one of his lines, making it too long.

The hairs on his arm prickled, distorting the picture he carefully sketched. He should have used the knife he’d stolen and cut off the hair before he began. He doubted the blade was sharp enough to shave; he should have burned the hair down to the root.

It was too late to do that now, not with what little candlelight he had left. Tom dug out a sock- his only clean one left, and shoved it between his teeth. He knew it wouldn’t hurt too long, but he couldn’t afford to take breaks and after a while the buzzing would cause his hand to flail.

With unsteady hands drawn by paranoia and hunger, Tom fished out the little sewing needle and punctured his skin. The needle stung, sharp and quick. The compression on the cotton string squeezed out the ink it had absorbed, and forced it under his flesh in a mark of his own making. Again, and again, until little blackened pinpricks bloomed under his skin and little droplets of blood dripped down his arm.

Again and again, until magic rune bled black on his skin and the candle finally, burned out.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!](https://discord.gg/SVrMbMS)


	7. Intra muros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Tom knows the world works like Economics.  
> Cost, Benefit.  
> Trade-off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPRINT WRITING.  
> Honestly, hang on.

“Crina is unusually interested in you.” 

Harry jumped, hand jerking reflexively. He stared at the dark stain over his summer homework, already bleeding and disfiguring the word he had managed to write. With a small sigh, he scribbled it out, knowing that Snape would likely mark him down an entire letter grade for the countless smears throughout the parchment.

Tom had been watching him for a while now, leisurely like a large cat. His eyes were sharp and intimidating, something about his constant observation reminded Harry uneasily of Aunt Petunia’s glare through the windows. Watching his every action, waiting for some sort of falter.

“Yeah well,” Harry huffed, glancing over his butchered scroll to see if he should consider rewriting all of it anyways. Hermione likely could help him, she had finished her summer homework nearly the first week off. “What can I say, adults seem to love sticking their noses in my business.”

Tom didn’t scoff or smile like Harry expected. His expression remained the same, ever constant watching. It was still odd to see him about, dressed in casual clothing (if slightly ill fitting) and sprawled across moth eaten furniture. Harry could only ever remember Tom Riddle from the Chamber, dressed in pristine clothing and silken undershirts. Now, he looked younger, gaunter, and somehow more  _ real  _ then the pressing veil of adrenaline from Harry’s youth.

“She thought it was ironic.” Tom spoke, a dull lull that didn’t reflect his face, “that I found myself interested in you. Do you know why that is?”

Harry swallowed thickly and ducked his head back down to scribble a few more useless sentences onto his essay. “No bloody clue.”

“I don’t believe that.” Tom said. He stood then, long legs folding like some sort of marionette. Graceful and seemingly defying the basic rules of gravity. Nearly floating as he walked, silent padding steps over the thinning carpet. 

Tom bent over at the waist, head drawn near to Harry’s elevation from where he was scribbling on a coffee table. 

Tom frowned, an ever so slight quirk of his chapped and splitting lips. Harry hadn’t remembered the ghost of the diary ever looking so horribly sick.

“Why are you lying to me?” Tom asked, voice soft and whispering. Practiced, and carefully said. Harry, against his attempts, felt a sharp reflex shiver down his spine. His hand twitched, scribbling more ink onto the poor parchment.

Tom Riddle was handsome, a delicate nearly feminine bone structure that only seemed more obvious with the hollows of his cheeks. They were filling out some, but not nearly as quickly as the dark bags under his eyes had vanished. Nearly overnight, they were gone. The difficult shade of Tom Riddle’s eyes- a blue or green or some weirdly named colour in between, was darkened slightly from the poor lamp light. An illusion, because the thin skin under Tom’s eyes certainly looked almost silvery from this close.

“I’m not lying.” Harry blurted, instantly ashamed and deeply uncomfortable with how close the other boy had gotten so quickly. “Honestly, I’ve got no ruddy clue why you’re obsessed with me.”

Tom’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, his bottom lip stuck out in a honest to Merlin pout. “I am  _ not  _ obsessed with you.”

Harry had a gut feeling, a strange sixth sense that told him that Tom was still keenly interested. “Yeah? Then get out of my ruddy space.”

Tom barely blinked, but did seem somehow a bit disappointed. “Your essay is wrong. Next time you’re writing about antidotes, at least spell the word  _ correctly.” _

Harry cursed and scribbled out the title of his essay, where sure enough he had misplaced the ‘i’. “Yeah? Well next time you want to get up in my personal bubble, consider a breath mint.”

Tom settled himself back on the couch, his posture more stiff and proper in contrast to before. His eyes flickered to the mess of ink stains and font- towards the right side of the parchment the words became scrunched together and started to tilt downwards the page.

Harry kept writing, trying his best to ignore the eyes on him, it was almost as bad as having Snape in the room himself. 

Harry was almost wishing that Ron was there to keep him company, or even Hermione. The former had brutally shot down any such opportunities to be around Tom, the latter was half concerned and half offended that Harry hadn’t completed his homework already. Harry was pretty sure Ron hadn’t even touched his stack of assignments, but then again he doubted he would until the train ride back.

Until then, Harry was trapped in a cloud of cheap smelling parchment and the slippery aroma of ink. He didn’t think ink even had a smell at first, but four hours of writing proved him wrong.

“Don’t you have something better to be doing?” Harry asked, trying to keep how ticked he was out of his voice. He knew he failed, but maybe letting Tom know just how annoyed he was would help out.

“I don’t.” Tom said, far too calmly. Harry chanced glancing up, scowling as Tom clearly hadn’t looked away from him once.

“Can’t you just…” Harry waved his quill, trying to shoo him away with the feather, “... _ go?  _ Begone? Uh...the power of Christ compels you?”

Tom frowned, very unimpressed. “Do you expect me to burst into flame? To hiss? Oh dear, are my eyes turning black?”

“‘I can throw some ink in your eyes.” Harry offered.

“Why is Crina interested in you?” Tom said, unblinking.

“Merlin, you’re  _ still  _ on about that?” Harry groaned, resisting the urge to really throw ink at the boy’s face. “I’ve never even met the bloody woman!”

Tom’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “Yet she’s quite taken with you. She doesn’t spare time for imbeciles-.”

“Wow, you’re more pretentious when you’re cranky.” Harry retorted.

Tom ignored him, “which means  _ somehow,  _ you’re special. Tell me why you’re special.”

Harry huffed and scribbled out the word  _ ‘Magik’  _ the moment he realized he spelled it with a ‘k’. “

“Tell me, now.”

“ _ Now _ .” Harry responded, pitching his voice a bit deeper to poorly imitate Tom.

“That was atrocious.” Tom said. “You misspelled  _ chartreuse,  _ which is irrelevant given that you’re discussing the wrong antidote.”

Harry looked at his paper. Apparently, chartreuse did not start with an ‘s’.  

“It baffles me that someone so...mediocre, could have drawn such attention.” Tom confessed with what seemed like disdain. “I’ve barely seen any redeeming qualities in you, yet you’re handled with such preciously careful touch.”

Harry didn’t look up. “If you’re going to keep using fancy words, you may as well write my bloody paper for me.”

“I wouldn’t, because I’m curious when you’re going to recognize you’ve been writing about the poison, and not the antidote this entire time.” Tom confessed with almost a soft shyness. Fake, of course. “I must say, I do love the triple negatives in the fourth sentence down. Truly conveys the full span of your intellect.”

Harry stared at his paper, partially in acceptance. Good thing he would have failed it anyways.

“Tell me why Crina likes you, now.” Tom demanded sharply. A crackling pressure of something weighing heavy on him, gravity crashing on his skull.

Harry grimaced, placing his quill down and inking his inkwell. The relentless pressure did not cease, even as his ears popped loudly. 

“Can you bloody quit!” Harry snapped foully, “just because you have your wand doesn’t mean you can be a goddamn arse about it!”

Harry’s nostrils flared. Tom didn’t have his wand anywhere near him.

Tom Riddle’s eyes were wide, larger than normal. Something about the crease near the corners gave away his surprise, or maybe Harry was just spectacularly in-tune with knowing Voldemort’s emotions after all this time. The pressure on his skull removed itself, a heavy burden finally sliding free.

Harry was annoyed, no- he was just shy of  _ pissed.  _ The outright nerve that Riddle had ever since he arrived, his posh attitude and his shite manners. All of it was piling up to one good fist and a nice shiner under Riddle’s eye. Of course, Harry wasn’t going to do that, but the mental image was pretty nice.

“You’re a prick.” Harry informed him harshly. “An outright, entitled,  _ prick.  _ I don’t give a shite about your sob story, you can at least stop acting better than others!”

Tom flinched, his head recoiling in something reptilian. His lip curled, his nose shifted, and Harry was faced with a mirroring snarl. 

Harry’s hands itched to throw a punch, or at least a few. 

“I-.” Tom’s voice cracked, changing from a restrained vibrating into a surprising octave crack. Tom blinked, recoiling once again before he stared at his hands in something glazed. “You’re...loud, aren’t you?”

Harry huffed and grabbed his parchment and inkwell, not bothering with a response. He stormed off, through the doorway and down the hallway towards the kitchen.

He spotted Sirius first, exchanging a joke of some sort with the twins. The moment his dark eyes rested on Harry his smile faltered and his large palms held his shoulders gently.

“Easy there,” Sirius whistled, “you look a little ticked, Harry.”

“I hate him!” Harry blurted, exploding in a single loud hoarse shout. “I bloody hate Riddle’s guts! He’s- he’s- he’s such a goddamn  _ prick!” _

Sirius nodded slowly, eyes searching from Harry’s back and forth. “Why don’t you take a break here. I’ll go watch him, see if I can figure what got you so riled. Even tamed animals can snap once in a while, yeah? Go, take a breather.”

Harry nodded slowly, unable to ever express the relief he felt. It was a balm to the stinging wounds he was too angry to lick himself. “Thank’s Padfoot.”

“No worries.” Sirius smiled, clapping his shoulder once more before he brushed past.

* * *

Tom stared at the coffee table, eyes set on the small ink splash already staining into the old wood. Walburga would have made a fuss of her ancient lineage being tarnished, even if it was just a table.

Harry Potter, the grandchild of the Potter who Tom knew in school. Some Gryffindor brute he never cared to remember, other than his lordship and placement in the world of blood purity.

Harry Potter, likely a pureblood, and yet without the courtesy that he had forced himself to learn. Like the lack of tact in the Weasley line, yet something…else. An inherent absence of knowledge, a gap over what should be known and recognized and what was there at all.

Not only that, but the other had been fuming with anger. A frustration so tangible, it had somehow infected Tom and coaxed flames to burn and in turn, his own irritation rising forth. He hadn’t remembered such unhampered irritation before, or rather, Tom actively tried to forget it.

Tom controlled his emotions with a leash and a woven whip. He made them heel or forced them to behind clenched teeth. He should not have been so...inexplicably  _ furious.  _ The only factor was the boy, Harry Potter, who somehow caused his temper to rise.

Was he an...an empath? Empaths generally received as well as generated output, he would have long since realized Tom’s method of self restraint and control and drawn attention to it. Perhaps he was a...legilimens of some exotic variety?

Even that fell short, and no further ideas came to mind. Tom stared at the ink stain and pondered things that should not be.

Why was  _ Harry Potter  _ the one to greet him after he was stolen away and taken prisoner? Why was  _ he  _ there instead of the girl, or the red headed bastard family? Why was Harry Potter being treated with such tender care and yet no appearance of blood kin came forth?

“Oi,” a deeper voice grumbled from the doorway. A rough hoarse voice that Tom knew as Black. Sirius Black, Crina had said he was an escaped convict. Convicted of what, he wondered.

Tom said nothing, and Sirius helped himself into the room, taking a seat on a chair that Crina tended to use for her own sessions. Tom still stared at the ink stain, wondered if perhaps it would shift and transform before his eyes into one of those ink blot tests he had taken. They never were happy with what Tom said.

“Harry Potter.” Tom spoke, softly although he knew he had drawn the man’s attention. “He is related to you.”

Sirius didn’t say anything, a confirmation in the silence. Maybe Black realized it was stupid to try and play lies now, or perhaps he figured the information was as worthless as Tom was dangerous. “He’s my godson.”

“Godson.” Tom said, a low musing whisper. The ink blot twisted, into the contorted shape of a rearing horse, of a chair missing its legs. “His family, murdered then I take it?”

Sirius adjusted his seat on the chair, and said nothing more. That’s how things were in life, war and murder and death all above. Either by gun, or broken bottle to the neck, or a noose fashioned out of bed sheets. It all ended the same, the finality of a sound cut off.

Harry Potter, orphan of a pureblood line. Associating with mudbloods and blood traitors, locked in a house as a war waged beyond its walls. Somehow, Harry Potter made Tom very, very angry.

“I’m out of books to read.” Tom murmured softly, gently as loathsome as he was to admit it. “Supplies, given the new arrangements.”

“Yeah,” Sirius grunted, annoyed over the precious emotional state of his poor godson. “I heard about that. You’re going to be a bloody handful.”

Tom’s arm prickled, the outer bicep on his left side. A soft change in temperature, like a breeze wafting over his skin. The ward was in place, a tracker like a collar around his neck. Worse came to worse, he could sever it with his knife. A broken ward had no placement, but the alarm it would ring would be enough to shorten his lead for an unmentionable amount of time. 

“Everyone treats your godson very carefully.” Tom said out loud. “Did he watch them die?”

Sirius stared at him, an expression Tom knew all too well and one he hated to see. Tom stared at the ink blot, and waited for the doctors to tell him that something whispered him temptations.

“No.” Sirius said after a while, coughing out words. “Bad circumstances, around him.”

“I gather,” Tom’s fingers twitched and his throat burned for a cigarette. “With his godfather being an escaped convict- oh don’t look at me like that. I’m as much a prisoner here as you are.”

Sirius’ eyes were dark, like Walburga's. So dark the iris was shaded and hidden in the shade of his brow. “At least I’m innocent. I know that.”

Tom didn’t allow his face to change. He didn’t allow anything to betray his intentions. “I need books to read.”

Sirius snorted in disbelief, “what, you can’t find anything in this godforsaken bloody house?”

Tom tapped his arm twice, not bothering to look in Black’s direction. “I’m not trusted with such available information. I’ve run out of things to read.”

Sirius twitched a bit. “Summer still is pretty long isn’t it. Damn, you’d likely burn this house down before you went shopping for school.”

Tom wondered if he threw ink on the walls, if they’d arrange themselves like constellations. He wondered if he could steal a bottle from somewhere and paint the underside of his bed in rune marks to nullify magic, and practice the spells he itched to do.

“I’ll see if Tonks wants to go shopping.” Sirius conceded with a small frown, “you know you’d have a half dozen tracers on you.”

Tom shrugged one shoulder, trying to seem like it didn’t bother him. It did, but sacrifices were always to be made.

* * *

“Alright,” Tonks clipped at him sharply, her eyes sharp for her age. “You’ve got two tracers on. Along with the ward. If you leave Diagon at all, the tracers will alert me and knock you unconscious. If you’re running when you leave Diagon, they will knock you unconscious  _ painfully.  _ I will know the moment you try to go into Knockturn. I will know every building you are inside at every moment. If the timer on your wrist beeps, you are to meet back here with me  _ instantly,  _ do you understand me?”

Tom’s jaw slowly relaxed with a creek. He painted a smile across his face, one that left Tonk’s nostrils flaring with barely withheld fury. Curious, how her anger only amused him while Potter’s left him infected.

“Get out of here.” Tonks snapped with a scowl, going so far as to clap the side of his ear painfully. Tom didn’t allow it to phase him. He watched her leave into a nearby store- one that sold an assortment of alcoholic beverages. Some things never changed.

Tom walked and ducked his head, mingling into the crowd of people in the fading light of mid afternoon. The summers lasted long, but always lingered in the hazy shades of orange and reds that painted dusk. The buildings were pretty and whole, unmarked by bombs that always ignored the hidden world. For some reason, it angered Tom.

A business card in his pocket, starting to go soft from the many times his fingers traced its creases, felt warm. He plucked it out, reading the word and font with regretful hesitancy. So the man was here after all, with a pocket full of coin compared to Tom’s measly few.

At most he’d browse the stores, testing the wares of second-hand shops in hopes that some books with faded covers had some content long since forbidden.

* * *

Tom smiled a welcoming face, carved from clay by scarred hands and broken fingernails.

Doge, in his exotic fabric and polished shoes, smiled genuinely. 

* * *

“Oh hello!” Doge enthused, tipping his hat like some charming man. “Oh Tom, how wonderful to see you so soon! My, you’re looking much ah, in fine health.”

Tom let his eyes trail over the worn covers, made from card-stock and cloth with gnawed ends and dog eared corners. “Thank you, I’ve been feeling much better.”

Tom pulled a book, listening to the soft sounds of fabric on fabric, the gently hiss of an old bookstore with history stacked like little boxes. Tom opened the cover and scanned the contents, philosophy or something else intangible.

“You’re quite a reader, then?” Doge asked, circling around him to lean against the wood of the shelf. Sweat stained mahogany, the reek of expensive cologne.

Tom bit his tongue and looked at Doge’s expensive shoes. “When I can manage it.”

_ ‘I can manage it,’  _ he wanted to spit,  _ ‘I don’t need you,’ _

Doge’s eyes were darkened, “oh, I don’t think that’ll be a problem now, will it? Go ahead, browse to your delight.”

Tom didn’t shiver, he didn’t look up from polished Italian leather and the smell of polished mahogany. “Go ahead, Tom. My treat.”

The faintest brush of fingers on his neck, as soft as turning a page. Tom let his eyes flutter closed, and strung himself together.

“Thank you,” Tom murmured, forcing sour reverence in his voice. It was a tone he had practiced since infancy, the look of fake adoration. “How many would be okay?”

White teeth, straightened and bleached with chemicals. “All of them.”  _ You. _

* * *

“You’re much too thin.” Doge clicked his tongue softly, one of his hands wrapping around the bone of Tom’s wrist. Pale, fluttering blue with spiderweb veins. “Look at your wrist, so small and feeble.”

Tom exhaled quietly, ignoring the man at the register who saw nothing of concern. The man placed books and books within the back, stacks and stories Tom wondered for their worth. The trade off, of parchment and cloth for mahogany and leather.

“Much too small.” Doge repeated, quieter in an afterthought, “there’s quite a bakery nearby, such lovely pastries they offer. Allow me to indulge.”

Tom smiled, his lips tight to hide the yellowing of his enamel and the slight twist of his canines. There was a scar across his shoulders, where the skin had healed too tight. It felt odd, warm and tugging across his back. 

“This way, my dear.” Doge murmured, one hand across his back with fingertips hooking under the curve of his shoulder blades. 

Honey filled pastries, sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg. Oranges, sweet and sour on his lips.

The bakery was a bed and breakfast, catered for the French who visited with thick accents and even thicker wallets.

_ ‘There’s something about frogs,’  _ Tom thought to himself, gazing at bright cheery walls. Painted by hand for the subtle touches magic couldn’t make.  _ ‘Heavy handed, strokes of red-orange-ruby all over.’ _

Tom’s scars itched, where they tingled and sparked under rough flesh. Where shrapnel burned his calves and he had not yet dug with needles to pull it free. The ripened smell of vanilla candles, memories of the previous occupants. Tom wished he had his diary, where he could scrawl his mind over the roar of gunfire.

_ ‘Sweaty mahogany, automaton legs fold over,’  _ he would write.

_ ‘Murky cider-scented Van-Gogh,’  _ he thought, ignoring the unwanted whispers of  _ ‘lovely lovely love.’ _

Tom felt wrong in his skin, drawn too tightly. Rattling, like the bombs that ached to be released. Unobtainable, never contained and waiting to spill over and ruin everything.

Whispered  _ ‘you?’  _ and Tom ignored the rattling that originated from his own chest.

Tom’s flaking peeling lips, from the dry muggy heat; salivating, swallowing, suffocating.

Tom realized he had fucked up, when he remembered he was no poet at all.

* * *

Tonks frowned, looking over her ward. She double checked the ward, spotted the tracking location from where he had visited. A bookstore, a bakery, a general store for clothing that explained the new thin cloak thrown over his shoulders. He was quite thin, perhaps the heat was still something cold.

“You done?” Tonks asked, arching one eyebrow in surprise. Sirius had said the boy seemed restless, Tonks imagined he’d reap the occasion and stay as long as he could. The alley was nice, cute shops and decorative displays. She had already grabbed a few bottles for Remus and Moody, the one brandy that Dumbledore had confessed his adoration for. 

Tom shrugged, pale in the light. Maybe they  _ should  _ let him get out more, he was like a bloody marble statue. Quiet like one too.

“Fine, come here.” Tonks reached out, snatching his shoulder in a white knuckle grip. He inhaled sharply, a quiet soft noise she was almost surprised to hear. A jumpy little bastard, wasn’t he.

The public floo was fine to get them the proper distance away, then a short jaunt to portkey away. 

Tom followed her, always a step out of place, half hauled behind her with a lame gait. Tonks reckoned he did it half on purpose, half uncoordinated. 

The house was a welcome relief, and yet Tom still said nothing. Silent on his journey home, like he was a humble traveler passing through.

“Remember to take your goddamn shoes off!” Tonks hollered at him, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that something had shaken the boy quite sharply. Had he tested the boundary of the wards? Had someone recognized him? It was impossible, only the Order knew of his existence and even with that only a handful knew of his identity. The boy was a strange one, perhaps Tonks had to call that shrink of his again.

“Tonks!” Mrs. Weasley called, popping her head into the foyer again. “Oh hello dear! You’re back so soon?”

“Yeah, kid didn’t take long. Reckon the bustle was too much for him.” Tonks jerked her head towards the staircase Tom had ascended out of site. 

Mrs. Weasley shifted uncomfortably, “ah, you know how boys are. Could you help me with supper? I had thought you’d be gone longer, it would be wonderful to have another pair of hands!”

“Sure thing!” Tonks popped to her feet, stumbling over the shoes she just rid herself of. It was a miracle that her balance hadn’t given her a busted leg already.

* * *

 

Tom sat in the clawfoot tub, skin flinching away from the icy porcelain. Water turned so hot thin wafts of steam danced over the surface, obscured with darkened water.

The baths always were quite marvelous, much better than the livestock trough Tom remembered crouching in, doused over and over with icy water drawn from pump or fetched from the Thames. Then, Tom always stank of sewage long after. 

The water here was a luxury, hot to the touch. It brought a warm rosy flush to Tom’s skin, a red hue that did nothing to stop the blackened bruises from forming. Broken patches of blood, congealing like jelly below his skin. 

He hurt, he throbbed in certain spots like those white and black dogs that chased the wagons towards the burning buildings. The sharp sting of torn skin under some hungry cause. 

“Shit.” Tom hissed, quiet under his breath like the thousands of times he’d done it before. The soap was soft and buttery, nothing like the lump of rockish slime and the demanding harsh  _ ‘scrub.’ _

Tom scrubbed anyways, over and over across his skin, across his lungs. Until the water darkened, and blood oozed free. Tom hated when he bled.

_ ‘Scrub.’  _ he ordered himself, and so he did.

* * *

Harry frowned down at dinner, poking the bits of potatoes. It really was good food, but he didn’t have much of an appetite. 

Tom was looking different, oddly guarded. Distant but not vacant. He looked almost ill, if one could be ill without any injury to body or mind. Something was haunting him, bothering him, or maybe he was so lost in thought their very presence meant nothing to him.

“You going to eat, you daft murderer?” Ron grunted, chewing with his mouth open.

Tom turned his eyes upon Ron, very slowly. Maybe it was the slight glaze, or the way his iris’ seemed too bright for his thin skin. Flushed red from his bath, like he decided suddenly he wanted to relax royally as everyone waited before eating.

“I would love,” Tom began, softly and in thought, “to bash a brick over your skull.”

Ron scowled at him ugly, his cheeks bulging with foot. “Yeah well, me too mate. Except, you know, your bloody noggin.”

Tom stared at him, then looked aside at the wall. He hadn’t touched anything despite the food placed before him.

“I heard you got books.” Hermione offered for conversation, slightly clipped about it. “Anything interesting.”

“No.” Tom said. He didn’t say anything after.

“Oh come on, don’t be grouchy.” Sirius grumbled, grouchily. If he saw the irony, he didn’t mention anything.

Tom’s jaw tensed, and Harry winced as he felt the heavy oppressive weight smack into him again like being clobbered with a cast iron skillet.

It annoyed him a fair bit, although the others seemed blissfully unaware. Harry grimaced as the pressure made something buzz high pitched, a headache in the making.

“Stop that!” Harry snapped, locking eyes with the distant acting Tom.

“You shouldn’t be able to do that.” Tom said casually, lost in thought. Harry didn’t think he had been there with them the entire dinner. “You shouldn’t be able to influence either.”

“Influence?” Ron asked, the world garbled around his half dozen baby carrots crammed into his mouth all at once.

Influence, that was...that would be weird. Harry hadn’t really influenced anything, it was just Tom with his goddamn annoying ass aura, trying to force them into submission via headache.

“I’m not the one trying to give me an earache.” Harry argued, Tom snorted softly and gazed at the wall once again.

Harry’s nose wrinkled, his hands curling into fists. What he would do to bloody knock some sense into-

Harry paused in thought, and stared at Tom’s clenched fist. White knuckled, but he seemed so distant and unaware of it. It could only be coincidence. Complete bloody coincidence.

Despite that, Harry was slightly intrigued, slightly curious by it all. He had some sort of  _ influence?  _ Like how Voldemort made his scar hurt every time he was close? Those strange flashes of thoughts and the disjointed dreams that had been bothering him for months? Did he have some sort of….backwards effect on  _ Tom? _

Wouldn’t that be ironic, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Give-Headaches.

Something was...still interesting. Maybe  _ he  _ could somehow reverse it?

Harry stared at Tom, and thought sharply,  _ ‘get up and dance around the table.’ _

Tom didn’t so much as twitch.

Harry huffed slightly under his breath, piercing one of his baby carrots to bite into. Merlin, sometimes Riddle really pissed him off. If he was going to sit at the table with them, at least he could bloody  _ eat. _

“What kind of books did you get?” Sirius tried, uninterested and slightly cautious. Tom didn’t look away. He did offer an abrupt, rude, “piss off.”

Harry’s hand curled into fists as he forced himself not to stand up sharply. Tom may have been an ungrateful prick but  _ still. _

“Rude much?” Ron muttered sourly. Tom then, gave Ron an absolutely foul look.

Harry felt that same prickle of annoyance, “fuck off, Riddle.”

(Like a positive feedback loop; fangs were bared and hackles lifted.)

“I don’t concern myself with inbreds.” Tom responded sharply.

Harry didn’t normally get pissed, but something about Tom just- just bloody-

(Harry didn’t know what it was, but maybe something in Tom’s distant eyes looked a bit like Cedrics.)

The two surged at each other, or clashed without words. Tom grabbed his steak knife, blunt little cutlery. Harry spotted it and-.

Harry imagined with the impulsive nature of intrusive thoughts, how savagely  _ delightful  _ it would be to view Tom with a knife in his forearm-.

“The bloody fuck!” Sirius shrieked, throwing out his arm to knock Hermione and Ron out of harm’s way. Harry leapt back himself, careful to be out of dangers way-.

Tom Riddle stared at him, face paling into something a shade away from the ivory tablecloth. A small spot of blood was growing, like spilled wine on the surface.

“Oh my-.” Hermione covered her mouth skittering back as Ron quickly shoved her even further. Sirius stared, unsure exactly what to do or what even  _ happened. _

Harry couldn’t help the nausea the bubbled in his throat, disgustingly bitter and citrus and- and the oddly specific smell of mahogany wood.

Tom steadied his breathing. He did not look at his arm where a shiny butter knife lodged itself in his forearm- his hand still clutching the handle.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!](https://discord.gg/SVrMbMS)


	8. Pari passu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Crina has questionable wardrobe tastes, Tom is as dickish as usual, and Harry wonders how he gets roped into things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay everyone!  
> I went on a vacation and hadn't the time to write. This is a personal birthday gift from me to all of you! Have a wonderful day, and stay warm! This winter is fairly crazy in North America, but I hear it's really hot in Australia. Stay safe!

Harry didn't imagine that he'd be spending his Friday morning sitting on the couch in the living room, awkwardly holding a saucer of tea. On the table next to him, a tiny platter of biscuits was out on display on the dainty white porcelain. The tarts were admittedly, quite good.

Sirius sat next to him, an awkward ball of tension that vibrates slightly from his legs into the worn-down flooring. Any longer, and his leg would start to shake so severely it would knock the precariously balanced cup of tea off his lap. Sirius looked like he hadn't realized what his restless leg was tempting.

Harry felt even more out of place, not entirely sure what was going on in the room, but the nervous anxiety was contagious. If Harry wasn't carefully, his leg would start tapping away on the floor boards as well.

"So," Crina spoke, this time wearing clothing that seemed very...unusual for her normal style. Harry didn't know her well, but everything about her objected to the current uniform. Hair pulled back into twin strands which somehow worked like a hairband. Harry couldn't say how it was doing that, but on the best of days he could manage brushing only half of his hair. He didn't have much ground to stand on.

She was wearing a... thick, sort of coat. Not a robe, but certainly not a cloak either. Dark shiny leather that fastened on shiny brass buttons, latching into place just around her collarbones. From there it was a stiff triangle flaring out, enough dark fur propping her strange coat into its perfect triangle, that Harry could easily imagine Hagrid wearing such a thing. Obviously, it would be too short for him- maybe a decorative fur scarf. From what Harry could see under the fur pine tree outfit, Crina was wearing some sort of dark trousers, equally shiny as the leather bits on the top of her shoulders. She looked ridiculous, official in some strange occupancy but nearly outrageous in the living room. Harry pondered how she hadn't fainted from the heat of it.

"I understand that there is an event we are to discuss." Crina said, voice smooth and slow. It was difficult to take her seriously, with the horrendous fur nightmare spanning off her shoulders. It was impossible to even see her arms through it all- how could she sit?

"Ah, yes." Dumbledore nodded, taking his time to sip from his own cup of tea. He didn't seem to think that Crina's wardrobe was unusual, however the old man himself was wearing an outer robe the shade of ripe cantaloupe. "Harry, if you will?"

Harry blinked quickly, trying to grab his scattered thoughts. It took some effort to repress the urge to blurt out what sort of animal was glued to Crina's side, or what all she had hidden under all that fur. She could maybe fit a half dozen house elves, maybe a goblin if they squeezed.

"Uh," Harry stuttered over his focus, "so err...Tom stabbed himself."

Tom Riddle, who was looking much more normal and not-insane compared to Crina, glared.

Harry tilted his head and tried not to imagine her cloak on anyone besides Professor Lockhart. "Err, so uh. We were...a bit uh, mad at one another. And we...uh, we were fighting, and he stabbed himself."

For dramatic emphasis, Harry mimed stabbing his arm with an imaginary knife. He clicked his tongue, sound effects and all.

Crina's face didn't shift. If she was surprised by the unexpected random bout of self-injury, she didn't show it. Instead, she gazed out at Harry, 70 percent fur and cloak, 30 percent person, and blinked slowly.

"That's the story." Sirius grunted low, his voice soothing from Harry's side. "That's all there is to it."

"Tom...stabbed himself." Crina repeated. When she said it out loud, it did sound stupid.

"Well when you say it like that." Sirius muttered lowly, shifting more into Harry's side. Harry couldn't describe how comforting it was to have the warm weight next to him; Dumbledore was reassuring in his own way but up against Crina, it was nice to have some close friends.

"That seems quite an argument." Crina mused thoughtfully, glancing off to stare at a wall. "Tom? Were you intending to stab Harry Potter?"

Tom's jaw shifted ever so slightly, his eyes locked on Harry in an icy glare. They seemed duller, sharper than he remembered.

"Well," Crina smiled, even though Tom had said nothing, "I see why you called me away so quickly, Albus. This does seem quite interesting, doesn't it? Uncontrollable rage, mutilation with a butter knife. Wonderful, limiting the wound."

Sirius jerked. "You aren't going to scold that bloody monster!"

The welcome warming embrace of Crina slipped away into something frosty. "If my client wished to legitimately cause harm, I have little doubt in his abilities. The question at hand, is  _why_ this occurred. I understand that emotional situations may...influence actions but resorting to  _stabbing_ oneself is incredibly out of character."

"You think I was cursed." Tom said.

Crina tilted her head slightly, glancing at Tom from the side of her eyes. "You've suspected as much already. This asks the question, who cursed you?"

Tom glared at Harry, and Harry began to have a very cold uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

"Now, Crina." Albus interjected smoothly. "Let's not jump to assumptions. I understand that this situation is quite stressful, but I don't believe anyone would go so far as to curse the boy."

"No, you don't think anyone could curse him under your watch." Crina mused softly, looking at Albus with a far too observant gaze. Her head tilted, ever so slightly. "You have him warded, don't you? No, you wouldn't be so...lax in your obsession."

Dumbledore said nothing. Harry spotted Tom's lip twitched into something close to a smile.

"Regardless, we've deviated from the topic at hand." Crina alerted the room. "Unless you would care to accompany me to my work, I suggest we discuss the reason why I'm here."

Albus twitched ever so slightly under her tone. Harry remembered, that Crina worked at a prison. Apparently, a prison with a horrible uniform.

"Tom stabbed himself." Crina said, voice firm. "I am confident, that his actions were not his own. This leads me to assume, that some sort of influence led to this decision. Of course, no magic was observed, which forces me to ask this question. I understand that a member of your order is a practiced Legilimens."

Albus' face turned rocky. He shook his head slightly, serious despite the casualness of his movements "I'm afraid that avenue is not available. Tom has not interacted with any of our mind arts."

"Is that so." Crina said. Her fingers tapped along the couch, hidden under all the fur. "Harry Potter, is it?"

Sirius stiffened on Harry's side, a low nearly impossible to hear growl in his throat.

"Uh, yes." Harry nodded, clearing his throat softly, "uh, nice to meet you."

He didn't like Crina's gaze on him. He didn't know why Riddle could stand it.

"I've heard such standard things about you, Mr. Potter." Crina spoke, voice smooth and low although rhetoric in nature. "In every sense, you are completely unextraordinary, and yet, you defy the odds."

Harry's arm burned, the thick rope-like scar that wove between the bones of his forearm. It throbbed and itched, like the strange anxious lump in the back of his throat.

"I don't know much about you," Crina admitted, a surprising admittance of her own weakness, "but your involvement with everything seems too...uncanny, to be anything of coincidence."

Sirius shifted slightly, a steady warmth and reassurance against Harry's side. Harry swallowed thickly, managing to summon whatever bravery he had to spit out a quick, "yeah? If you wanna be famous instead, go right ahead."

"I already am." Crina barely  _blinked,_ unresponsive to his snap. "Tom, are you close with Mr. Potter?"

Tom smiled something plastic and fake, wrong and twisted across his face. "I would love to see him struck with a blasting curse."

Harry felt annoyance prickle. He jutted his chin at the bait, ready to throw back his own insult.

"Interesting." Crina broke the tension. "Mr. Potter, would you give me consent to evaluate your magical resonance?"

Harry began to open his mouth to protest, since he had no idea what exactly that meant. Was it some sort of medical spell? He had received plenty of those in the Hospital wing, but those normally didn't have as fancy a term as resonance. No, this sounded much more severe, or maybe more obscure.

Sirius nudged him slightly, clearly unhappy with the situation.

"Will it hurt?"

"Not more than other spells you know of." Crina answered, reaching up to unclasp the brass buttons that held her cloak together. It crumpled around her hips, revealing a much more maneuverable leather outfit that looked a fair bit more snug than other things. Maybe something Tonks would wear, but Hermione or Ginny wouldn't be caught dead in the dark leather.

"Harry," Dumbledore spoke carefully, "if you don't want to partake in this, then it is unnecessary. Crina believes that...somehow, the ritual in which Mr. Riddle was pulled through somehow linked you, to Mr. Riddle. The incident with the knife was a... moment, of instability."

Harry's heart thudded loud in his ears. "Riddle's in my  _head?"_

"No." Crina abruptly spoke. "There is no creature or being ever capable of entering your mind without you knowing. Even spells have weakness in the action of how they operate. I wish to perform a magical resonance spell, it is a... fire, that burns the things your magic has touched."

Harry shifted unsure, Tom glared at him with wild eyes and a bloodied bandage around his arm.

"Okay," Harry agreed, standing on two feet. Sirius stayed close, patting his shoulder reassuringly. Crina stepped closer- clicking boots that looked to be the same material as the tight fitted leather shirt. On closer scrutiny, it almost looked like some sort of...armor.

Crina pulled her wand from a spot on her hip, holding it carefully pointed away from both of them. Harry couldn't help but feel appreciative for it; he didn't know how he'd feel with a wand pointing between his eyes so spontaneously.

"I'm going to incant the spell and tap your chest." Crina said, her free hand prodding her own chest to represent where. Center, near his sternum. "From there, it will sting. This is temporary, you may sit down during this without affecting the results."

Harry nodded slowly, trying not to twitch as Crina's wand tapped his chest twice quickly. She spoke something, accented and thick and muffled in Harry's ears. He wondered if that was how the spell was supposed to be, or if she had changed language to keep it out of the ears of the sharp eyes across the room, watching everything far too carefully.

The stinging hurt, but it was nothing worse than a decent quidditch fall. Harry grimaced, shuffling himself back on the couch as he waited for the bright throbbing pain to fade. It was like having Ron fall asleep on his legs or waking up with one arm stuck under him all night.

Colours faded into existence, thin hazy shapes and swirls like the purplish fog that wafted down from the divination tower. The only thing it was missing was the perfume in the air, the one that always made Harry sneeze a little.

Harry's eyes were trained to spot a flicker of gold, or colours out of alignment. It was because of this, that he spotted the thin flickering rope no thicker than his pinky finger. It was drawn tight, clear white or maybe somewhat grey, fading off in a single straight direction.

Harry lifted his arm, watching with fascination as the cloud of smoky blue followed him- like the colour of a soul a Dementor kissed.

Crina's eyes flickered downward, spotting the thin rope after a few moments of patiently weaving. She watched for a moment, before she stretched out one hand to gently waft her hand through the cloud. It dispersed and rebuilt itself, a thin translucent sheen.

"It appears," Crina mused softly, "that you two have a... magical linkage. Onset from the passage you traveled, Tom. This would explain the intrusive rise of your emotions."

Tom stared at the small cloud, drifting around like a visual representation of something smelly. Tom said nothing when he spotted the line trailing off in his direction- impossible to miss.

Dumbledore stroked his chin. "Well, this is no more a hindrance than the case of the hiccups!"

Crina hummed tonelessly, tapping Harry's chest once more. Slowly, the fog began to dispel. "Perhaps so. Now that we've concluded the discussion of cutlery weaponry, perhaps we shall move to our next topic of discussion."

"Hogwarts." Albus finished for her.

Sirius, vehemently, objection. "No way. Look, the kid  _stabbed himself._ You don't want that monster around other students-."

Crina spun on her heels sharply. "Mr. Black, are you aware of the basic requirements to be considered a  _monster_ even by psychological aspects? No? Then I kindly request you cease talking at this  _moment._ Perhaps you may have interacted with mediwitches or low-level examiners, but you  _cannot_ lie and smile to one experienced in the mind arts and  _falsify a scoring._ The labels of monster are slurs directed at individuals with personality disorders, however such disorders are present from  _birth._ You cannot falsify biological lacking of specific compositions; unless you intend to undermine or  _challenge_ my authority, I humbly ask of you to  _shut up."_

The room was quiet, Sirius looking thoroughly scandalized by the event. Harry couldn't help the small surge of guilt that welled in his throat.

Tom Riddle looked down at his arm, face expressionless yet his eyes were shifting with something Harry couldn't describe.

* * *

"I don't like him." Sirius muttered, hip brushing against the doorframe as he scowled in the general location of the stairwell. "I don't like the look in his eyes."

Harry couldn't argue. There was something...he couldn't describe in Tom Riddle's eyes. The sharpness, the cruelty.

"It doesn't mean we can't make him stay here." Harry muttered back, leaning back against the wallpaper stiffly. "It's...nobody should be locked up like that."

Sirius' face faltered, sinking into something understanding no matter how much he hated that. "Damnit, I know...It's just…"

"He isn't going to hurt me." Harry defended with a weak smile, "If anything, I'm the one who could take him on."

Sirius chuckled weakly, "you're both beanpoles. Scrawny little guys. I reckon I could take you with one arm."

Harry couldn't argue that, but he did duck down and try to escape the large hand that grabbed his hair and ruffled the mess. Sirius took it as a personal challenge to make the birds nest worse- at least fluffed up and gnarled enough Harry could hide a few snitches in its tangled mess.

The atmosphere sobered with the knowledge that time passed regardless of their denial. The clocks were ticking faster now, a challenge magic could not halt. Well, except for Tom, but even that wasn't understood.

"I'm going to miss you." Harry confessed quietly, all too aware of the mirror Sirius had given him before. "I'll send Hedwig, when I can."

Sirius chuckled, a low rumbling noise that Harry felt through his chest and into his heart. "Don't worry, it'll be over before you know it. Cause some chaos for me, eh?"

* * *

There was something humbling and comforting about the tall peaks of Hogwarts, the silhouette in the morning fog that made Harry's heart twinge. He loved Sirius and his house, but the musty smell of it didn't quite feel as welcome as the old parchment and cold stone air. If Harry had an option, he would live his entire life inside the soothing walls of his first real home.

Tom Riddle on the other hand, he could live  _contently_ without.

"This is a waste." Tom said calmly, looking pleasantly irritable with the ornate window of the carriage approaching the castle across the dirt road. The carriage rattled as it rolled over a thick root- Harry had been trying to ignore the horrific looking monster pulling the carriage. Something told him that Hagrid had petitioned for a new assortment of questionably dangerous beasts.

"It's a nice view." Harry muttered, trying not to rise to the obvious barb. Tom didn't respond, but his eyes were watching the castle's towers emerge from the distance. Even his usual coat of petty could not remain in the rush of instinctual joy that Hogwarts offered them, her gates open with a quiet  _'welcome home.'_

The carriage came to a stop and Harry quickly clambered out, taking care to veer away from the large equine looking creature.

Tom came out, a bit more graceful although on closer examination the movement looked more instinctual than anything. Harry dismissed it as the other having been shuffled around in carriages quite often.

Tom  _did_ take care to veer away from  _Harry,_ leaving an outrageously large gap between them. Harry had walked closer to Malfoy even.

Tom did reach up absentmindedly to pat against the thick cordlike muscle of the monster. Its dark pelt twitched under his curious fingers, pulling tense over the ridges of its protruding vertebra. Harry couldn't help but stare at the sight- wasn't Tom the one who had leapt away nearly screaming bloody murder at the sight of Luna, but here he was casually petting one of Hagrid's beasts?

Then again, Luna would likely have liked this strange creature as well, so maybe Luna wasn't a good comparison for someone normal. For all Harry knew, Luna could be part…Sphinx or something equally wacky. With all the strange things Hermione had a guilty pleasure reading in those Witch Weekly gossip magazines, Luna could be the next greatest seer of all time, or part Elvish or something equally ridiculous.

"What are you doing?" Harry found himself blurting, watching almost curious with how chaotic the action was. It had a level of habit to it, an uncaring soothing of a timid animal. Harry found himself wondering if Tom treated humans with that same level of uncaring action.

Tom didn't offer an answer, instead choosing to be as prick-ish as normal. Harry really should have been used to the silent treatment at this point, but it never failed to annoy him how Tom could dismiss him so quickly and casually.

"You know, the castle may be different now." Harry chased after Tom.

"Doubtful." Tom shot him down almost as quickly.

Harry felt a small surge of annoyance that always seemed to bubble up in the presence of Tom's unique ever so loving compassion for others. "You'd be surprised. Two years ago, a car flew into the Whomping Willow."

Tom shifted ever so slightly- nowhere near a trip but enough of an unplanned movement that Harry could recognize he caught him off guard. The Whomping Willow had been planted, according to Sirius, to guard the tunnel for Remus to escape through. Tom would have no knowledge of the tree, or the current abilities of Muggle technology; for all he knew, flying cars were muggle inventions.

"I see." Tom said. Internally, Harry cheered at having caught Tom so off guard that the other boy even responded. That was one step in the right direction.

They managed to ascend the bumpy polished path stomped into existence under the many boots of thousands of students. In all honesty, at this point it was so sleek and slippery, someone was going to slip on the near shining rocks. They had all this magic, and not a single person had thought of putting up a guard rail? Or investing in some thick bags of salt from then it got icy around Yule?

The castle was a comforting sight but still uncomfortable without the constant thrum and noise of students. It was odd to see the staircases silent and locked in place- unmoving without passengers. Tom, even with his prickly exterior, was a comforting warmth walking alongside him.

They walked through the halls, a few portraits throwing questions in their direction. Tom responded to a few with pleasant smiles, going so far to even  _greet_ an odd number of them by name. The portraits always had difficulty with grasping the movement and gap in time; a few responded to Tom with equal greetings, ignorant of what had ever passed outside their wooden frames.

The large doors of the Hospital Wing were familiar to Harry- even the small scratch marks from the time Fred and George tried to bust him out second year with the use of exploding decorative fruit. The pear had  _somehow_ gotten half fused to the door and detonated, leaving a nice lumpy sear mark near the left hinge. For months it smelled like burnt sugar and fennel.

The doors slid open with a small creak, although Harry assumed it was more for aesthetics instead of poor maintenance of the hinges. Dumbledore always was someone fond of dramatics. Tom's face didn't twitch at the piercing noise, so Harry assumed it had been the same even in his time.

The hospital beds were empty, even the one on the far left that Harry had declared his own. The wooden headboard still had his transfigured starling trophy on the top, like an obscure decorative feathered gargoyle. Hermione had teased in a huff that his hair already looked like a bird's nest- may as well offer him a bird for a get-well present after he had nearly been kissed by a Dementor last year. It was flattering, or insulting, that the monument to Harry-being-hurt was still there.

A small shuffle and from one of the back rooms Madam Pomfrey emerged, hair pinned back professionally under her ever-present headgear. It was admirable how prim and proper she always seemed to be, even when removing an inkwell from a Hufflepuff's throat after his friends dared him to eat it.

"Mr. Potter!" She huffed, a small playful scowl tilting on her lips. "You better not be in here as my patient! Term hasn't even begun!"

Harry took half a step backwards without thinking, already lifting his hands in a defensive gesture. "Erm, not me, ma'am."

"Pardon my interruption," Tom smoothly slid into the conversation, like the oily bastard he was. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. I believe I am the origin of our presence here. I was under the assumption that word had already been given, my greatest apologies if this was an inconvenience to your work."

Madam Pomfrey paused, blinking twice before the small smile on her face shifted into a more neutral professional expression.

She folded her hands in front of her, the white and soft pastel blue of her robes only emphasized the crease lines and wrinkles across her older face. Harry wouldn't call her motherly, but there was something distinctly maternal about her actions.

"Oh, none of that." The mediwitch assured. "I am staff here at Hogwarts, and everyone is welcome regardless of what injury of ailment worries you."

Tom's face was perfect as it shifted through the movements into an open cheerful expression. If Harry hadn't known the boy, he would have believed it. Tom was like a boggart, somehow able to transform before your very eyes into something that twisted your innards and made the small animal brain part of your head  _scream._

"Oh, thank you, ma'am." Tom  _bowed,_ one hand over his chest in a loose relaxed gesture that meant nothing to Harry.

It evidently meant something to Madam Pomfrey, who was falling for his fake weasel act by the minute.

"Oh, none of that," Madam Pomfrey said. "I have your room already set up. I heard from Albus that you have a condition it seems? That may require constant medical intervention upon spikes?"

Tom barely batted an eye, "so it appears. I believe all pertinent documentation has been owled in advance, ma'am?"

Madam Pomfrey licked one finger before she shuffled to a nearby cabinet, thumbing through various cream and yellowish folders before she plucked out a stack of parchment, connected by what looked like a hair clip. "Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Riddle. I see that you require…oh my, quite a collection of vaccinations."

Tom's smile didn't waver, he managed to shift his shoulder slightly into a halfhearted shrug- something that Harry instantly interpreted as being sheepish. Harry knew better, but his body reading skills and brain very stupidly told him opposite.

"Ah," Madam Pomfrey nodded knowingly, "one of  _those_ families. No worries, dear. We'll have all of this sorted out in the next few days. Your room is one of the longer care rooms I have available, normally only used as isolation I'm afraid. It isn't much, but I  _have_ attempted to connect it to the facilities I have here."

Harry poked his head in as the Mediwitch showed them into one nondescript door sitting next to a decorative rubbery looking plant. Harry would have presumed it was a closet, except Hermione had been housed in one of these isolation rooms for a few days after the Polyjuice mishap.

The room was small, clearly it had been renovated to  _seem_ homier, but it was impossible to scrape away all the medical qualities. The random sink by the door, the small crevices in the wall for some sort of apparatus, the small bed mounted into the floor itself, and the sheer overwhelming amount of lights.

It  _was_ better, with the small rugs and wall hangings. A small painting even of a soothing bubbling brook hung near a window- which Harry knew couldn't be opened.

"I have you connected to the Infirmary Wing's washroom." Madam Pomfrey looked apologetic, "it's a public loo, of course. I wouldn't keep any toiletries within, but the door does connect from the back of your closet."

"Many thanks, Madam." Tom tucked his chin in, another more casual bow of some antiquated respect. Harry didn't quite understand, but Madam Pomfrey looked at Tom quite fondly afterwards.

Harry was afraid, that by the time school started, she'd be completely wrapped around his finger.

"You don't have access to my medical files or other tools I use, I'm afraid." Her expression turned stony and firm. Maybe she  _wouldn't_ be wrapped around his finger.

Tom managed to look shocked, as if such a concept was obvious. "I would  _never._  I completely understand and value your work, I would hate to abuse the trust and compassion you have already provided so selflessly."

 _What a prick,_ Harry thought to himself.

"I do have to do a mandatory evaluation of you, I'm afraid." Poppy grimaced slightly, "due to the nature of your residency here, I'm mandated by law to perform an evaluation monthly for changes in your physical and mental states."

Tom didn't look alarmed. "Why, of course Madam. I believe that baseline records have already been established, but if you would prefer, I am comfortable being under your wing and at your mercy."

Madam Pomfrey  _flushed,_ eyes shining in relief. "You're a breath of fresh air. I've forgotten what It's like to have a competent patient for once."

"Hey." Harry couldn't help but defend himself. "I'm a wonderful patient!"

Pomfrey scowled at him, trying not to smile fondly. "Of course, you are, Mr. Potter. Hop along now, I believe your head of house may be waiting for you in your tower!"

"Oh," Harry blinked in sudden realization, "wait, what house is Tom going to be in?"

Tom twitched ever so slightly, eyes a sharp venomous stare behind Poppy's back. Poppy shifted a bit into a more professional stance, her arms interlocking at the palms in front of her. "Tom here is a medical patient, which under Hogwarts criteria, is a neutral space for houses. Tom will be in no house, and divided across various courses as the Headmaster has constructed his schedule personally. This of course, exempts him from playing on any Quidditch teams, or aiding in the House Cup."

Tom, in Harry's opinion, didn't look too upset with this information.

"However," Poppy continued, "Tom has no head of house."

Harry blinked twice. "Err, so…"

Poppy rolled her eyes and walked off, snatching a bottle of disinfectant and a few clean rags. She seemed to be on a mission, and Harry was not danger-friendly enough to bother her now. He could take on a three-headed dog any day, but interrupting Madam Pomfrey? No- Harry  _still_ remembered how that Skele-grow tasted.

"You don't seem too upset with this all." Harry said to Tom.

Tom managed another venomous side-eye. "I have nothing to be worried over. The arrangement works and allows me to operate independent of Hogwarts's curriculum."

"Does that mean you don't have to take potions with Snape?" Harry asked, eyebrows shooting up. Harry would have paid money to see Tom resisting Snape's barbed tongue, or Malfoy's git face. "Lucky bastard."

Tom's eye twitched slightly, although it was impossible to determine why exactly. "Friend of yours, I take it?"

Harry shivered, flinching back near violently. The small gleam of satisfaction in Tom's eye let Harry know he had done so on purpose. "Slimy git."

"So, you say, dame." Tom's eyes were near burning with the amount of rude delight in the exchange, "or shall I name you something else? Twist and twirl? Fanny?"

Harry spluttered, not quite sure how to respond, especially with the sudden lyrical near rhyming jolt of Tom's voice at the presence of that dreaded cockney once more.

"Oh, button up, mare." Tom drawled, almost a croon that felt very old and strange to hear. It reminded Harry of when Dudley had gone through that phase of thinking it was fancy to be into classical idea; when he bought a designer bomber jacket and greased his hair and made Harry's uncle buy him a vintage record player to play gravely albums.

Harry felt himself trying to kick his brain into gear- like the busted-up car lost in the Forbidden forest. Somewhere in the back of his skull, his conscience was slamming on the clutch, trying to force the gears into alignment with a horrible grinding noise.

"What?" Harry croaked out, and Tom grinned like a snapping turtle.

"Don't hurt yourself." Tom nearly purred, entire body and tone shifting into something even more scary to Harry. Not sharp and predatory- like when he had a butter knife puncturing through his arm. Back then, Tom had been all teeth and exposed whites of his eyes.

This was in contrast, the exact opposite. The antithesis of then. His mouth was all lips, quirked and pulled back thinly, his eyes half lidded but still sharp and dark.

Harry didn't like this Tom, the way he donned a new layer and presence like a cloak. Wrapping himself up, like an onion. Or a rose if Harry wanted to get metaphorical, at least Roses had thorns and were- in the greater schemes of things- absolutely useless.

"Don't miss me too much," Tom crooned, twirling and  _sauntering_ away into his decorated isolation room. Harry hoped that maybe Tom would catch the flu from living in there. Or the plague.

On the other side of the door, Tom's face faltered and pulled back with the same level of disgust as removing a particularly itchy sunburn. He shuddered once, trying to get the acidic taste out of his mouth.

The room was nice enough, it would serve his purpose. Larger than the rooms he was used to, more isolated yet it had more privacy. A constant warden to his cell, but a warden who, for now, was oblivious.

Tom's trunk and things were already there, tucked neatly under the small cot. Less comfortable than his old bed in the Slytherin dungeons, yet kilometers more comfortable than a wool sleeping bag on broken cobblestone.

He yanked out books, sliding them onto the mediocre flimsy bookshelf offered for his convenience. It obviously used to hold medical supplies; soap and gloves and the sort. If Tom was lucky, he may find a chunk of the lye yellow block somewhere under the exposed piping. The type of soap that bruised over his knuckles and left his skin yellow and smelling.

The books were stacked, spines exposed and set in order from topic instead of last name. Various concepts, as well as two journals he had managed to purchase for his thoughts to fill. Let them read those books and pour through his notes when they inevitably scoured his room for suspicious things. He'd need to find a hiding place soon.

Until then, the Hospital Wing was the best possible place for Tom to hide illegal dreamless sleep potions. A heavy stock for incoming students was nothing to be alarmed by; flu season was approaching anyways. From what Tom had gathered, the war was especially vicious, nightmares would be common.

The thick beakers he had were fairly suspicious he'd admit, but Tom was nothing if not clever and quick at hand. Snatching empty vials and bottles was easier than snatching coin purses or food tickets. Cleaning them was even easier with a sink in his room.

Tom had found himself in worse situations before; ridden with disease or lancing infected blisters with red-hot needles.

He could survive easily; a school year was nothing to him. The lack of allies was disconcerting, as well as a line of new teachers he had to investigate and charm all in only a series of months. He could do it, but already the stress and anxiety of his work was weighing on him. It made his head throb dully, a distant headache brewing on the horizon.

Not to mention his joints still ached with growing pains from the prescribed nutrition potions, combating his malnutrition and anemia in a single fell swoop. Tom wouldn't be surprised if his hair stopped falling out and his cheeks filled by October. Maybe then, the small painless black zits along his hips would fade as well. Long after the green-yellow bruises in the shapes of fingers did.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!](https://discord.gg/SVrMbMS)


	9. ab absurdo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom is at school, and somehow, saves the day.

The term started with the usual bumble and hustle that drove Harry into the warmth of Hogwart’s walls. It was a bit odd to be in her hallways before the other students arrived, to see the portraits quiet and snoozing as he walked down the threadbare carpets.

It all changed of course when the large red train blew smoke, calling out a greeting from many mountains away. Harry ran, sprinting in mismatched socks and untied shoes all the way down to the station, laughing and welcoming friends and family alike.

Hermione and Ron instantly found him, although Hedwig’s large white plumage certainly helped. The great bird chattered out her own greetings, chewing on Ginny’s hair teasingly as the younger girl gave Harry a hug.

“We were worried for you!” Hermione said, beaming wide in the comfort of her second come. “Did everything go alright?”

“Absolutely perfect.” Harry couldn’t help but smile, the wonderful atmosphere contagious to everyone.

The younger wide eyed students were shuffled off towards the boats. The rest of the platform began a slow lumbering crawl down the station, waiting in groups for the big horseless carriages. At least, they _had_ been horseless in Harry’s memory, but the mental image of Tom’s absentminded pat along the creature’s neck was still too vivid.

He glanced at the beasts with a small grimace. Pressing his luck to be exempt by the large warm animals. They still unnerved him; related to the Muggle notion of horror and grotesque imagery to ever be something calming. They were hairless, black coats slinging to each bone like when Aunt Petunia microwaved something with plastic wrap. It always came out weirdly sealed, vacuumed tight and radiating heat near visible.

Hermione didn’t glance at them, neither did Ron. The closest reptilian head tilted slightly, eying Hedwig on Harry’s head with its milky white eye.

“So, uh.” Harry paused, _knowing_ the creatures weren’t imaginary since Tom had so kindly pointed out before. “Do you see the big horses or is that just me?”

Hermione threw him a look, climbing into the carriage. If she had been speculating he had lost his sanity, his question did little to defend his case.

“Mate, there’s nothing there.” Ron pointed out, patting Harry’s shoulder sympathetically in a large heavy clap.

“Don’t tease him too much,” Ginny stuck out her tongue, “Merlin knows what spending a week with _him_ does to a person. Oh! Luna! Over here!”

From the gloom in the direction of the train station, a smaller blonde girl bounced over. She had Pig’s cage in her hands, the little owl looked to be getting motion sickness with her happy skipping.

“Here you are, Ginny.” Her eyes looked slightly cloudy and her voice was calm in wake of the green looking bird. “What are you all talking about?”

“The horses!” Harry pointed, trying to find _some_ sort of neutral ground. The last thing he wanted was to have another strange hidden bond with Tom, this one manifesting in the sight of emaciated pony rides. “They can’t see them!”

Luna blinked curiously and looked at the front of the carriage. It was hard to tell if she was perplexed, or if that was just her resting expression. “You mean the thestrals? Is there something different about this one?”

“Thestrals,” Harry repeated, before turning to look at Hermione in petty triumph, “ _thestrals.”_

Hermione gaped before closing her mouth with a huff. Luna, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice the amused atmosphere in the carriage that slowly rolled along towards the castle.

* * *

 

The Entrance Hall burned a glimmering display of torches, bouncing off the starless black ceiling in silvery trails of imaginary moonlight. Candles floated instead, operating as makeshift constellations that the Hogwarts’ ghosts seemed to find great pleasure in mapping. Harry noticed other students ducked their heads low as he passed, whispering to one another. He ignored them, and wished distantly that he could forget it as easily as Tom could.

Luna drifted away from them, finding her own seat at the Ravenclaw table. Ginny similarly broke away to be engulfed by her yearmates.

Harry took his seat, somewhere near Neville and Ron, but through the shape of many bodies he could distinctly hear Lavender’s recognizable laughter. It was comforting to know the girl was already back into gossip. It felt like no time had passed at all.

Hagrid wasn’t at the staff table, his large form difficult to miss. It was obvious, no matter how many times Harry scanned his eyes up and down the length. The Half-giant wasn’t present, and instead, it looked like someone's aunt was sitting next to Dumbledore.

Well, perhaps someone's aunt. She had a smile pressed so firmly onto her face, it looked ironed on like those magazines Aunt Petunia always scoffed at. Her cheeks rosy and plump, but a colour Harry doubted anyone could achieve naturally. Squat, short curly brown hair. She reminded Harry slightly of a rather pleased mouse, except draped in such a nauseatingly bright pink robe.

Harry didn’t recognize her, but when she took a sip from her goblet he quickly corrected his assumption that she resembled a mouse, to that of a toad.

“Who is that woman?” Harry asked, smart enough not to point. Hermione leant over, squinting at her with a frown.

“I don’t know, likely the new Defense professor.”

“Nice cardigan.” Ron said.

The first years joined, and despite knowing ahead of time, Harry was almost expecting Tom to come marching in with them. His height would dwarf the terrified children, although his deep scowl and large pointy hat may have made up for it. Looking at the staff table, Dumbledore looked nearly ready to laugh; Harry wondered if the man was thinking along the same line.

Harry craned his neck, peering around to see where the boy was. Dumbledore wasn’t likely to make an announcement and draw attention to Tom’s position, but it wasn’t exactly a secret. The Heads of House would likely mention it after the feast- but even then, Tom should be somewhere _in_ the hall.

“I already looked,” Hermione muttered quietly, eyes flickering around. “He’s not here.”

Ron didn’t notice their trepidation, instead, he was caught in a vicious battle between a chicken leg and his teeth.

The students dug in, and slowly, began to fill themselves. Once the noise level of the hall slowly started to creep upwards, more talking mouths than chewing, Dumbledore stepped forward. Talking instantly ceased into a low hush.

The start of term notices, the casual things Harry had learned to ignore halfheartedly. He should really compile a list of rules and regulations, cross through them for everything he had broken so far. Trespassing the corridor, attacking a teacher, going into the forbidden forest, kicking a werewolf although that one didn’t accomplish much.

Harry _did_ notice, when the new woman stood, and interrupted the headmaster.

“Oh dear.” Hermione said.

Her voice was high-pitched, breathy and a little girlish. It was an odd juxtaposition to consider her a toad with such a high strained noise. A bullfrog maybe, wearing bad lipstick and clothing that made Dumbledore’s silvery robes look normal.

She cleared her throat with a little _‘hem hem’,_ and Harry nodded. Definitely a toad.

Harry noticed that she had finished talking only when Hermione gasped audibly. His attentiveness ebbed, like his ears were shifting to the wrong telly channel and never managed to come back. A few students had already ignored her- Lavender had returned to gossiping.

“That was horrible.” Hermione said in a low voice. “It explained a lot.”

“You managed to listen?” Ron asked, his eyes as glazed over as Luna’s on a normal day.

“That woman, is a ministry official.” Hermione gritted out, “it means that the Ministry’s interfering at Hogwarts. They’re starting to overstep, or maybe they’re afraid and grabbing power.”

Harry looked at her, and traced the woman- Umbridge’s face with his eyes. Across the carefully pinned hair and painted cheeks. The way her expression never fell. Plastic, and rehearsed. She reminded him of Aunt Marge, but not like her at all. Something told Harry that this woman wouldn’t own a dog, but that she _was_ the dog. An innate sense of _wrongness_ about her that made Harry want to duck his head low and stay out of sight. He hadn’t felt that way at Hogwarts ever before. Not in his home.

There was a great clatter and banging around them; Dumbledore had dismissed the school. Everyone leaped up, even Hermione who looked a bit flustered by it all.

They departed, bolting really to fetch the confused first-years and guide them to the tower. Harry couldn’t help the small fond smile at the sight of the tiny children, running around frantically with large hats. They reminded Harry of traffic cones.

He knew he should be irritated with Ron and Hermione’s new duties, but he had since come to terms with it. They may be prefects, but Harry had been assigned his own unofficial job. He didn’t have a fancy badge or privileges, but he _did_ have a single individual who he had to somehow convince to not go on a murder spree.

 _‘If he did,’_ Harry thought tiredly, _‘I could borrow some first-years. Use them to reroute traffic.’_

Harry, in his blessed daydreams, yelped like Hedwig when someone snatched his arm and yanked him out of the flow of movement.

It wasn’t _far_ out of the way, just to the landing of the first staircases. It felt secluded, even though they were in plain sight of nearly the entire school. The sound and voices were aimed one way, leaving the landing muted and quiet.

Tom stared at him, as quiet as could be.

“Where were you?” Harry blurted instantly, “In the hall?”

Tom’s face didn’t shift,  not a hair out of place on his precious little head. “The back room.”

Harry knew that room, the same area the champions had gathered after they were selected. It was a small thing, but supplied tables and little chairs for staff that didn’t want to sit at the staff table. More a supply or gathering area really, but still vivid enough in Harry’s memory he didn’t challenge it.

“You hear the speech then?” Harry asked, a bit curious. Hermione was a bit ticked by the new woman, it would be interesting to see  Tom’s own personal opinions on the matter.

Then, Harry started to actually _look_ at Tom.

There was something about Tom’s clipped tone which felt odd to Harry. The small subtle movements of body language that contrasted with his mental image. Harry knew body language- he wasn’t nearly as good at reading people like Ron impossibly seemed to be, but he could tell the most basic things. The small inflections or twitching of fingers that almost _always_ came with an answering slap. The low way one would divert their eyes and speak quieter to skirt under the attention of someone else. Harry hadn’t seen it in a long time, he had only spotted a mutated form in the way Neville stuttered with both anxiety and adoration for his sharp grandmother. He had felt it, just earlier. Under the beady eyed woman who now apparently was testing Hogwarts.

This was different, because Harry had no misunderstandings about Tom’s blatant distaste for them all, but here he was acting so eerily submissive and natural Harry wondered if _this_ was his natural state. Tiptoeing through a minefield with a barely withheld grin, knowing that although others would be blown apart _he_ would be just fine.

It wasn’t quite something that was _wrong_ either. That was the worst bit, the thing Harry couldn’t quite force himself to forget. There was a lewd casualness to it, a civility to one another based on the acceptance that some people apparently deserved to be a little bit more _flinching_ than another.

Sometimes when Snape spoke to Harry, in that sharp dry tone with those lazy summer insults, Harry had to bite his tongue to not mumble back _‘Yes Aunt Petunia.’_

Harry didn’t know how to explain to Ron or Hermione how that could be. How sometimes a look someone gave you made you taste the bitterness of soap or the stinging _crack_ of a hand on skin. Tom though, Tom said absolutely nothing but every twitch and every blank look screamed to Harry like Aunt Marge shouting at Ripper to _get down, boy!_

Harry wasn’t fond of Umbridge before, even if most of her political jargon had passed over his head. It wasn’t her appearance or the smug look on her face, but it was the way a couple hours across the entire Great Hall had reduced Harry to those buried moments. The way, even indirectly, the both of them were waiting for the sting of ruler across their knuckles, or a palm against their face.

Harry wondered if Neville could feel it too, or if his mutated mixture of genuine love and stern backhands had rendered his own perception stunted.

Tom’s body twisted slightly, tilting them so that their backs were to the crowds of students ascending the stairs. The sound muffled just a tad further, another layer to this weirdly private moment between them.

Harry didn’t like it, that something about a ministry worker could worry Tom (that’s all this could be) to this degree.

Harry had a bad experience with the Ministry before; both through Sirius and Cedric. It wasn’t an organization he was particularly fond of, or trusted as it clearly wanted its citizens to. With the propaganda twist that Rita Skeeter threw into the Daily Prophet, Harry was far to skeptic to take any words at face value. He wondered if that was his own paranoia speaking, or if his self preservation had finally reared its head to combat his own reckless tendencies.

(Clearly, his reputation had spoken for him in advance.)

“Don’t trust her.” Tom spoke to him, voice low and inexplicably hoarse. The hand on Harry’s arm tightened ever so, Tom’s fractured splintered nails digging into Harry’s sleeve and leaving the smallest pinpricks of moon on his skin. “The Ministry woman.”

Harry hadn’t even realized that Tom hadn’t let go. Instead, his grip only tightened.

“Umbridge?” Harry asked stupidly, because there was nobody else that itched and rubbed him so _wrongly._ The vague sense of predatory glee, of confidence that she could and _would_ tear them all apart. Plus, she was the only odd thing in the entire speech.

“She’s the Minister’s assistant.” Tom kept speaking, voice low but quick. Some syllables chopping together in a unique cadence Harry knew he couldn’t replicate. Historians would likely weep at the sound of it. “You don’t obtain that position through bruised knees alone.”

Harry felt his face flush at the dismissive implication Tom provided. Tom ignored him and kept talking, face blank and staring forward. Harry realized, that it was unlikely anyone else even noticed their conversation. “The political beast isn’t one you can... _outfly_ on a broomstick. That woman appears simple and obnoxious, yet in her current position and power there is very little who can interfere, and very few she can’t touch. She can ruin your life if you allow her.”

“How do you know this?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. His brain felt a bit melted with how quickly everything had escalated. “That she’s trouble?”

“They always are.” Tom said, vague and cryptid. “If you’re going through hell, keep going. The ministry- this _woman_ is not supposed to be here. She will put you through hell, and expect your cooperation. Do not give it to her, do not turn into sheep.”

Harry tried to think of where he had heard the saying before, and why Tom so vehemently spat it like it was revolting on his tongue. “Do you know her?”

“No.” Tom dismissed bluntly. “I know her kind.”

He let go of his arm, took a few steps to smoothly incorporate himself into the flow of students, and vanished.

“Prat.” Harry said.

* * *

 

History of Magic was the most painful subject taught at Hogwarts. And that was including Potions. Potions at least, if you were lucky, would knock you out before torturing you. Goblin Wars had no mercy.

Only Hermione managed to take notes, which readily were a hot commodity and could likely end such Goblin Wars. Harry wondered if the Goblins had such a system of communication, or if all the wars were results of poor information management over the conversion rate of a tulip bulb to gold.

Today, the Gryffindors suggested for an hour and half, surviving in the alluring haze of sleep and Hermione’s quill scratching. Hermione shot them all filthy looks, but in the end sheer numbers won and left her frantically taking notes.

Spirits plummeted further as the Gryffindors descended into the dungeons, surviving the first two hours of the year in Snape’s wonderful company. He didn’t seem any more chipper or cheerful, although that would be more surprising than seeing the greasy haired man taking care of a unicorn. Harry was nearly gleeful at the prospect of not needing to take Potions ever again after this year.

Lunch was a casual affair, shepherds pie and thick gravy. At this rate, Harry wasn’t sure he’d leave for Christmas break without needing a new pair of trousers.

Despite that, Harry couldn’t help but wonder distantly how Tom was getting along. Harry didn’t know everything about the boy’s situation, but what he gathered was that he’d be studying independently of any house affiliated classes. Hermione likely understood it better, but Harry was stuck in Divination with Ron instead.

Professor Trelawney finished her explanation of something, flinging her hand dramatically in a reenactment of turning pages. Harry tiredly flipped open the assigned material to browse through the introduction of The Dream Oracle.

“This makes no sense, mate.” Ron shuddered, squinting at the pictures in the book which were only marginally more clear than piles of tea leaves. “I know I dreamt about flying the other night. Does that mean I’m running away from my problems?”

Harry shrugged, flipping the pages further. “Maybe a Hungarian Horntail is going to chase you. Destiny and all that.”

“I bloody hope not,” Ron shuddered, scribbling it down anyways on the worksheet. “What about you, mate? Any weird dreams recently?”

Harry’s brows scrunched. He wasn’t going to share his dreams with anyone- not the ones that reflected back the graveyard. He already knew well enough what that meant; he didn’t need an old book telling him that a great evil was chasing him.

Inspiration struck and Harry nodded ever so slowly in thought. “Yeah actually. A few weeks ago I had a really weird dream.

“Firecrackers I think.” Harry said. “Or something like that. Maybe exploding snap, you and the twins weren’t playing it when I was sleeping, right?”

Ron looked a bit baffled. “No, mum got rid of our deck. Don’t reckon there _are_ any firecrackers where we were...uh, staying.”

“Huh.” Harry shrugged, and of course, Trelawney heard.

“Oh!” She wheezed, sounding in need of some clean air rather than a message, “what are your dreams telling you, my boy!”

Ron quickly skittered backwards, leaving Trelawney’s large bug eyes blinking at him instead.

“Uh,” Harry’s mind scattered, “uh...b-blasting curses? Or uh...fireworks?”

Trelawney nodded so quickly, her earrings rattled like little a cat toy. “ _And?_ And what else, my child!”

Harry shrugged one shoulder helplessly.

“The atmosphere! The smell!” Trelawney continued, flinging her arms with the risk of actually punching Harry in the nose. “The smell! What did it smell like!”

“I don’t know!” Harry blurted in alarm, “smoke! Dust! You know, broken building!”

Trelawney hummed a noise like a broken cat purring, “and the feeling! The feeling, boy!”

Cold. Empty. Isolating and chilling- enough that Harry jerked so hard when he woke up he fell from the bed. That was how he remembered the dream- the strange yet unsafe dream. It had terrified him, left him sweating and chilled to the bone despite the summer heat.

Trelawney scoffed, offended as Harry stopped talking. She danced off, intruding on Neville who was in the middle of some large tale about his grandmother and large quilting scissors.

“What a mess.” Ron complained, packing up before they started down the steps. “Reckon she’s going to ever leave you alone?”

“Not in my lifetime.” Harry said, hoping that the strange eerie sensation he had been reminded of would leave him alone.

It didn’t, even as they entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. They found Professor Umbridge already seated at the teacher's desk, wearing the same pink eyesore as the night before.

The class filed in, Hermione patting their shoulders as they all managed to find desks near one another. The class was quiet, unsure of how to act in the presence of an unknown teacher.

The class escalated in boredom, and a strange heavy oppression that had Hermione’s rarely seen, petty grudge, rearing its curly hair.

Harry found it fascinating, Hermione had never neglected reading before- especially when instructed. She sat stiff backed, arm straight in the air unwavering. She was staring straight at Professor Umbridge, face composed and flat.

Professor Umbridge looked just as determinedly anywhere else in the class.

After a few more minutes, the majority of the class was now watching Hermione. The introduction they had all been assigned to read was so painful, they were finding near perverse glee in staring at Hermione’s unwavering determination. Truly, an inspiration.

Slightly more than half the class was staring at Hermione rather than at the book, then, the door to the room opened.

If they had been doing anything exciting, such as watching grass grow, they may have missed it. The doors gave a low click, a gentle slide of hinges. In desperation for any sort of stimuli, half of the class twisted their neck eagerly. Harry wondered if their guest would put them out of their misery.

Oh, _oh._ Maybe Tom would.

“Pardon the intrusion,” Tom said, voice smooth and flat. Nearly monotone except somehow- it wasn’t. Harry wouldn’t normally marvel at Tom’s unique voice and cadence, but at this point Harry would nearly cry in happiness at the opportunity to sift cat litter.

Umbridge’s face didn’t sour, a testament to Hermione’s irritating inquiry.

“Not at all.” Professor Umbridge’s voice was sickly sweet. “I do ask that you arrive to class at the _proper time,_ lest you make me very displeased.”

Tom didn’t pause a second, managing to slide himself into an unoccupied desk near the back of the class calmly. Lavender, sitting next to him now, looked ready to swoon.

“A reasonable request.” Tom continued. “However, I am not part of this class. At this time, I’m investigating potential coursework to determine if attending such would be a benefit of my time. I thank you for your hospitality, madam. It also appears, that a student of yours has a question.”

Hermione pointedly, wiggled her fingers in the air.

 _‘Wow,’_ Harry thought in distant amusement. Now he really, _really_ wanted Tom to join their class long term.

Umbridge looked taken aback- although even Hermione looked vindicate amused by their unlikely avenging angel.

“I see.” Professor Umbridge clipped out, voice ever so sharp now that her fake politeness was gone. “I’m sure you will find this course more than _beneficial_ by your standards, Mr…”

“Riddle.” Tom responded instantly, rehearsed nearly. “I thank you for such a warm welcome. Would you entertain a query of mine about your course aims- simply a curious student to our new esteemed Professor. If not, I of course entirely understand.”

Oh, Tom was _good._

“Well, Mr. Riddle, I think the course aims are perfectly clear.” said Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined sweetness.

“Pardon my cretinous company, madam. I am wondering at what point the British Ministry curriculum permitted a coursework aimed towards defensive magic to not contain any defensive magic within its instruction. Forgive me, for witless minds, but at what point did the Ministry of Magic’s OWL requirements for Auror certification no longer need _practical_ magic?”

Professor Umbridge stared. Tom stared a moment longer, then he nodded slowly as if in confirmation.

He stood, polite as ever and offered a charming smile. “I understand. I thank you for your patience, and beg forgiveness for absurdity. I see your curriculum is not one I should partake in-.”

Professor Umbridge flushed, a small thing that Ron watched with a look of pure glee.

“You cannot graduate without OWLS in Defense Against Dark Arts!” She snapped, giving a tiny dramatic stomp.

Tom gathered his things, unbothered. “I already have taken my OWLS, madam. I’m in the first percentile. Have a pleasant evening.”

Tom slipped out, and Harry felt like applauding.

* * *

 

Tom made his way very calmly towards the nearest loo, confident that his display would force the woman to maintain her classroom with an iron grip. Nobody would be slipping out until the hour was done.

The loo was quiet and empty, barren here unlike the others would be. A tap dripped quietly, some younger student having not closed the faucet all the way. The various stalls were open, informing Tom of their vacancy.

Tom closed the heavy door to the loo, pulling his wand to mutter a few selective locking charms. Nothing suspicious, but enough he’d have moments of warning before someone barged in.

Tom didn’t have privacy in his own washroom, even though it was intended for such. The only moments he could steel for himself were those taken in the daylight hours.

He had little time, but more time than he needed. He needed to simply document and dot along the line, a temporary tattoo. He was so used to the needle poking his skin, the sharpened nib of a quill was nothing to him.

Yanking his trousers down slightly, he bunched and shifted fabric to observe the small lesions he had spotted not long ago. Originally small, he had dismissed them as minor skin infections or perhaps a hex he hadn’t noticed until later. He wouldn’t put it past the younger Weasley to try and target him.

The lesions were small and painless, a strange deep blue with a black center. A bit of his skin had worn off; instead of yellow pus instead dripped discharge like watered down ink. Black and thin, staining over the few conjured bandages he had pressed against the tiny spots, wrapping around his upper thighs. No larger than a knut, little specks of ink around the perimeter from where Tom had been attentively tracking the size. They weren’t getting larger, but they weren’t shrinking either.

The only thing that came to mind was that the small sores were related to his….ill advised consumption of a specific potion. An ache he knew now, a dependency he hated like the itch on his bones.

He’d keep monitoring the small spots, and search for something else if they ever turned worse.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!](https://discord.gg/SVrMbMS)


	10. Ad locum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Tom investigates and finds the name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy! Here's our first glimpse of Grindelwald and Crina once more!

The castle was distant and foreign in a way unlike anything Tom could imagine. 

He knew the walls, he knew the stone pathways. They greeted him, as if no time had passed at all. Despite that, there were differences. New paintings on the corners, different trophies and names. Tom was no fool, he had paused outside the showcases and found his own name listed on the gilded plaques.  _ Tom M. Riddle, Head Boy. Service to the School. _

It wasn’t him, but at the same time it was. A legacy he didn’t know, a face he hadn’t seen in a mirror.

Tom Riddle was no fool, he knew things were wrong and different. Tainted foully. The other students didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps the secret spoken blatantly was something unknown only to the majority. It wouldn’t be the first time.

It felt like the war, and yet nobody seemed concerned. The new Defense teacher only assured him of that- a political figurehead with little to no expertise in teaching. He had seen this before, the purge and surge of propaganda and public information. Tom wouldn’t be surprised if slowly throughout the year the books in the library were removed one by one. 

He would have to search them quickly- find his way into the restricted section as soon as he could. He wasn’t naive enough to assume that Dumbledore hadn’t already filtered the selection. Anything that could help him would already be hidden behind locked doors.

A week into term and the whispers started. The thick low mutter of rumors that hadn’t ever faded in social norm. Whispers Tom couldn’t help but notice, but names and gasps he couldn’t identify. He didn’t understand the  _ reason  _ for it- the hidden panic.

_ “He says he saw Cedric Diggory murdered…” _

_ “He reckons he dueled with You-Know-Who…” _

_ “Come off it…” _

_ “Who does he think he’s kidding?” _

Tom bit his cheek and kept walking. The suspiciously absent tie evident, the plain black scarf around his throat that belonged to no house in particular.

No, Tom  _ didn’t  _ know who. That was the problem. An entire war was evolving and bubbling- or something scarily like it. Tom knew little to nothing, and it bothered him more than he’d admit.

Apparently Potter had gotten into a shouting match. Already stirring trouble and spitting venom at the ministry worker. The unqualified teacher who fancied herself something better. It was sickening, painfully familiar. 

He knew this castle like old faded photographs. He knew his face like it wasn’t his own.

He was thankful at least that Potter had apparently stirred chaos within the castle. The rumors were focused on his apparent imploding, it seemed poor Potter was a few moments away from lashing out. The world fancied him a dark wizard, apparently a murdered to a select group. Potter didn’t have a bone in his body capable of injustice.

“Excuse me,” Tom smiled, pulling his lips back into something kind and open, “I was wondering if perhaps you could help me?”

The girl glanced up, her eyes widened in surprise at the question. He had approached her from out of the blue, intimidatingly so. She had her face crammed in a decently thick book, squinting at the small font in what looked like herbology. Likely for materials to write an essay on, or studying intensely for the quizzes common at the start of the term.

“Uh, hello.” She greeted, blinking in bafflement. She glanced at the page number, sliding the book closed and to her side. Her bag was thin, distinctly wizard in structure and material. She’d do.

“I appreciate it,” Tom said. He kept his face smooth and unimposing. “I’m new here- a transfer. I’m a bit at a loss of everything going on here.”

Her eyebrows furrowed and she chewed her lower lip. Perhaps his age, maybe the year above. Wonderful, she already was staring a bit too long on the sharp cut of his jaw and his hair. He knew those lingering glances, and how to use them.

“It’s a bit overwhelming.” Tom said, taking steps forward to settle into the small impression of the window. The girl wiggled to the side, offering him more space. 

“Oh, It’s a confusing castle.” She assured him. Glancing down at her hands shyly, “the teachers are all nice here- oh, well, except Professor Snape. He’s...a bit scary.”

Professor Snape, the potions professor if he recalled correctly. He used the same room as Professor Slughorn, the same deep classroom with fumes sunken into the walls.

“Sounds like that Potter folk is too.” Tom said, shrugging one shoulder. His body rolled with the movement, her eyes stared a second at his neck. “A murderer?”

“Oh, well.” 

Tom started to lean away, a small shift of his body. The girl latched on, Tom felt almost disgusted by her generosity. 

“He isn’t bad!” She blurted, shuffling her fingers again. “Well, he’s...last year he came back with the cup- the Twiwizard Cup, we had the tournament here. And Cedric- Cedric Diggory, was dead! He said that You-Know-Who did it, but...but You-Know-Who is  _ gone,  _ so…”

Tom’s mind scrambled, jolting far too quickly. His temples twinged as quickly he tried to process everything he could. You-Know-Who? Had Grindelwald survived? Had his supporters managed to catch hold and retain it over the years?

“That’s horrible.” Tom said. “I had no idea. How is this school running if there was a murder?”

“Well…” the girl paused. Tom should have known her name, but he cared too little to ask for it now. “...Truth be told, Hogwarts has rotten luck. Last year there was the Triwizard Tournament nonsense, and two years before that the Chamber of Secrets opened and then vanished!”

Tom froze. His blood curdled. “The Chamber of Secrets?”

“Oh yes! It’s a famous myth- well, more infamous now. There was a monster or a dark wizard petrifying students! It took a girl down there, and then closed. Nobody was hurt and our teacher vanished- Professor Lockhart! He was quite wonderful, not too bright though…”

The Chamber of Secrets. Tom had been looking for that for...for  _ years.  _ The link, the secret words spoken and implied to be parseltongue. The Chamber had  _ opened,  _ which meant that the school had  _ witnesses  _ detailing how to get inside. Someone in the castle knew where the Chamber was, and someone had...had  _ released  _ the basilisk.

_ Who?  _ How?  Had the bloodline somehow survived? Was there another parselmouth?

“So uh…” The girl glanced down at her book. “What year are you? Do you have that essay on Nettle for Professor Sprout too?”

“No.” Tom’s eyes flickered down at the book. It was an older model, the same collection from a book he knew but many many years a different edition. The content would be similar, unlikely to have changed over time. Worst come worst, he could express his concerns with Ms. Dimitriu and she would likely send him resources. “Thank you for your aid. I’ve been quite worried over that Potter fellow, you’ve made me feel much better.”

The girl bit her lip and nodded. She looked a little guilty, a little pleased with herself. “He’s not all bad! I mean...he’s a bit mean sometimes, snaps a bit too. But he’s kind too! Seems he’s just got a horrid life…”

Tom mentally summoned his restraint, and forced his shoulders to lean inwards. He shifted his body language, diverting his focus on the startled and slightly flushed girl.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know much about him. I’ve been gone a long time, you see.”

“Oh.” She said. “He, uh, he’s...his parents died! When he was young! But ah, you probably knew that!”

Tom didn’t but she didn’t know that. “Oh? Thank you so much for this by the way. We...I traveled a lot- South Africa for a while. I haven’t heard much about this...You-Know-Who…”

“Oh.” She squeaked. “I uh, what do you want to know?”

* * *

Crina leant back in her chair, the wood creaking slightly. One high laced boot crossed over the other, resting gently on her knee.

The folder and parchment under her fingers crinkled slightly as she poured over the picture, the subtle shades of ink splattered and folded- creased in a mirror image. She despised the useless tests, but they were fascinating tools for subconscious processing even when the individual was aware of them.

“Rorschach.” Crina said, her voice echoing slightly in that way stone seemed to make. “Outdated, although I shouldn’t say such things when they’re still used in wizarding medicine.”

The ink blot, large and spanning across the paper stared at her. Mocking her in its blatant unimportant splatter. 

“I never think of you to use something outdated.”

“None of that,” Crina said, not looking up from her papers. “I appreciate the attempt, but flattery has long since been wasted on me. Especially given that I already know it’s merely words.”

Crina’s face didn’t twist in a smile. Her patient chuckled deeply, low and tired. The room was cold- it was why Crina took to wearing her thick fur to insulate. It was comfortable, perhaps a bit obnoxious, but it disguised her figure and had protected her time and time again.

“You haven’t been around much,” a small pause. “Have you found someone more interesting?”

“I have.” Crina said, unrolling the sheaf of parchment attached to squint at the handwriting. Small and precise, a bit loose and scribble in that rhythm that suggested fountain pens rather than quills. Crina knew that feeling well, it was interesting to see the difference between writing. She could mark the point he alternated between using his left hand and his right to scribble down his assignment.

“Oh dear, I hope he isn’t a stubborn one.”

“That title is held by you alone,” Crina finally smiled, an upwards quirk of her lips. “Don’t be jealous now. You’re still the king of this castle.”

“A king behind bars and shackled to an iron ball.”

Crina’s smile was a tad bit sharper. She looked down at her notes, tracing them carefully to document them to memory. She’d transfer the more important ones over to her files, the books where she compiled data and evidence. These results were particularly intriguing.

“Is he younger than me?”

“Everyone is.” Crina said. “It’s ink blots. It’s always death and disaster with your type.”

“And cannibalism with Julius.” 

Crina nearly snorted. “Ah yes, poor Julius. The Italians took him away far too soon, I’d have loved to see his thoughts on other documents, but you know how international wizarding organizations are.”

Crina mouthed the words quietly to herself, quick enough that her patient couldn’t read her lips.  _ ‘Severed limbs and a blood splash. Old and dried up; several days.’  _ That was interesting, not too many people had analyzed the pattern of ‘blood’ in the splash. Crina herself thought it looked like a rather happy looking badger personally.

“They’re giving you trouble then, the British?”

Crina sighed through her nose, a slight high whine in it. “Gellert, I understand that you may believe yourself to know my business, but you must remember, you’re my prisoner.”

Gellert Grindelwald’s eyes were dark, half hidden in the lighting. Nurmengard didn’t offer much in the option for lighting- no windows without thick iron barriers. No doorways without locks. Lanterns were bewitched to burn on oil, extinguishing the moment they spilled. There was no fire in Nurmengard, there was no escape in Nurmengard.

“Oh?” Gellert asked, his accent thick but still retained. One last morsel of his pride, scraped off the stone floor and cradled in his lap. “I couldn’t ever forget.”

Crina didn’t look up from her notes. She didn’t bother the man with a moment of her thoughts. Yes, he sat across from her, but he was still her prisoner. Shackled to an iron weight- archaic, but effective. Even the werewolf they had was unable to tear the ball from its leg. 

“You flatter me.” Crina said. Her eyes skimmed over Tom’s handwriting, reading his interpretation to a splotch of red ink.  _ Vultures flying, a cat between them. _

Gellert’s eyes dropped, sliding off her thick fur coat to glance at the wood of her chair. The lantern burned between them. “I would be a fool, to ever doubt you, Frau Overseer Dimitriu.”

Crina’s eyes were equally dark as she briefly glanced up. Her pen pausing in its scribbling. The shadows thrown across her face emphasized the lines near the corners of her eyes. Crows feet, the slight wrinkles from concentration.

“You’re awfully chatty.” Crina said.

“Perhaps I’m concerned for your new interest.”

“You’re not.” Crina said. Her frown dipped lower, her eyes cold and calculating. “You care little for the fate of others. You care only for yourself.”

Grindelwald smiled, a thin expression obscured by his beard. White, coarse. His eyes were still sharp, still cruel. Crina was no fool.

“You care only because I’ve seemingly been distracted.” Crina said. She knew her patients well. “I haven’t been. I have eyes in my castle, and you are still a prisoner. One of your own making.”

Grindelwald nodded ever so slightly, calmly. This was simply a conversation between old friends. “Have my wölfe been well?”

Crina set her pen down. “Lupescu. I gave them a name. Not your crude definition.”

Gellert’s eyes sharpened ever so slightly. “You bastardized them.”

“You bred them.” Crina said. “From animagi if I recall correctly. Quite an intelligent group, wolves with animagi blood. Quite loyal, and very vicious.”

“The loyal guard dogs of Nurmengard.” Gellert’s lip curled slightly, his cheeks pulled back into a wordless snarl. “They are  _ mine.” _

“The Lupescu,” Crina said pointedly, “are  _ mine.  _ I am the Overseer of Nurmengard. They are my guards. Do we have a misunderstanding,  _ inmate?” _

Grindelwald snarled wordlessly. His torso arched slightly, shadows under his eyes more pronounced. The man was intelligent, still sharp in mind. Crina took no risks, and held no bargains.

Grindelwald’s nostrils flared as he breathed in and out quickly. Crina casually picked up her pen, writing her notes. Basking in the delight that she could do what he could not.

“No…” Gellert ground out, adjusting himself from his seated position on the chair. His amputated arms- ending just above the elbows, shifted in the knotted ends of his robe sleeves. “...we don’t have a misunderstanding.”

* * *

The international registry for magical testing was advanced, and confusing. A headache for paperwork, skimming through the multitude of forms held together with thick white thread. Crina often wondered why the magical world hadn’t accepted stables and incorporated them into the culture. It seemed exhausting, to sew pages together line compiling a new book.

_ If section 1A(c) is not applicable, move to section 2F _

Crina sighed, and turned the page skimming for 2F. Honestly, she should have gone to a Goblin consultant for taxes with how elaborately annoying these forms were.

Her pen scratched, filling out simple things. Crina was the leader of Nurmengard- she often had registry into national databases for informational purposes. Highly illegal, but then again, many purebloods tended to have children in the preference of their home. The majority of reported births were just sent via documentation, not eye witness accounts. Archaic, unreliable, and very convenient.

Tom had his own information deeply sunken in the British database. It was impossible to access and remove the ministry forms, but the original forms of the British Muggle World were easy to steal from the registry of orphans. Along with it, documentation and faded pictures. The pictures of Tom in his youth was the documentation Crina needed to assure nobody would ever look an eye at her forged file.

His fake identity number was scrawled into the necessary spot, his legal name filled out in Crina’s font.

Already Tom’s file was thick, the scores from rudimentary test and her own careful statements of exemptions from various courses. History, astronomy, the areas of study that Tom had already proved he knew more information than the international standards. It wouldn’t be long until she’d be forced to meet with one of the representatives of the international educational standards. She wasn’t sure how the meeting would go, especially since Crina had tentatively placed Tom as her ward.

“Oh Tom,” Crina sighed, tapping her lip as she looked through the evaluations and reports sent to her from Hogwarts. Required of course, small updates from teachers and from Dumbledore himself. It wasn’t anything major, and Albus was being remarkably polite about it all. They’d need to work on Tom’s sharp tongue, it wasn’t good to have already infuriated a few teachers.

Actually, Crina didn’t recognize the name of the one teacher he had apparently infuriated. No, the wording was off. The teacher he had  _ displayed exaggerated impudent behaviour.  _

“Who are you?” Crina asked. Placing the file to the side as she fetched a different piece of parchment, scribbling down the name of the teacher who had placed the request.  _ D. L. Umbridge.  _ She didn’t recognize that name.

“Mika.” Crina said, elevating her voice to be heard in the hallway. A moment before the door opened, the heavy oak creaking slightly as a younger woman poked her head in. 

“Yes Frau Dimitriu?”

Crina folded her fingers in her lap. The name was unsettling to her, for reasons she couldn’t quite describe. “Mika, could you fetch me the registry of aurors from Britain? And the International registry for education degrees- the most recent model.”

Mika nodded, slipping out of the room. The records room was under more heavy security, each inmate having a thick sheaf of parchment detailing their every recorded document until the day they died. Only Crina and her staff could enter- the few Mediwitches and Wizards she hired, the secretaries that managed the intake and output of finances from the government to handle the cost of living. Mika was a wonderful secretary, able to sort and diverge mail and requests into piles. She was useful too, and was paid admirably for working in such a haunting place.

The door opened after a soft knock. Mika walked in, the two books stacked in her arms. The thick scar across her face looked ghastly in the lantern lighting. A shame, she would have been an attractive woman if not for it; certainly able to find employment outside of a prison.

“Thank you,” Crina accepted the books, setting them to the side. Mika slipped out of the room, and Crina opened the book to the directory with a small  _ oof.  _ They were stupidly thick, annoying and crinkly. 

_ Magical Britain Auror Registry and Employment.  _ She turned to the last name selection, filtering down the U’s to where Umbridge should have been. Crina traced the letters with her finger, finding  _ Ulura,  _ and  _ Unaru,  _ but no Umbridge.

She closed the book, nearly choking on the cloud of dust that wafted up. The other book revealed similar results- the last Umbridge who managed an education degree was generations prior- at least it affirmed that this mysterious teacher was a pureblood in England. If only Crina could access  _ that  _ database.

Despite it all, something about the name bothered her deeply.

* * *

There were many new books in the Hogwarts Library, ignored in favour of another.

Tom knew how to look normal, how to find what he needed.

_ You-Know-Who,  _ listed under an assortment of various books. On the back page of  _ Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.  _ Listed in careful writing  _ “A compendium of important wWzarding events from the twentieth century, including the story of the Boy Who Lived.” _

One of the highlights in  _ Modern Magical History.  _ The third section of  _ The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.  _

Each book, listed the reoccurring name. Over and over, written again and again and  _ again. _

_ The Boy Who Lived! _

_ The Death Eaters!  _

_ He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named! _

Tom closed the book with a snap. Staring at the shelves blankly.

It wasn’t a coincidence. The hostility, the hate and scorn. Only a few people seemed to recognize him, to falter at his smile. If everyone had known of...of this great secret, then digging for information would be much more difficult. 

Something unsaid, sitting in broad daylight. Written in history books and passed around in afterthought. Harry Potter, the  _ Boy Who Lived. _

This...This threat. The murder apparently last year- right before Tom arrived. The extra security, the hushed whispers and glares in Harry Potter’s direction. The Slytherin students seemed more vengeful, vindictive under a heavy weight. A social stigma, one he felt on street corners and under military issued uniforms.

A student had died before he arrived, and now there was a ministry employee keeping an eye on the castle. This was...it was a political move, a careful slide to obtain power. Something about the castle was threatening the society and political stability of the country as a whole- which tended to mean that they were right. 

Harry Potter was...impossible. A child able to survive a killing curse and somehow  _ defeat a Dark Lord  _ as a baby. That…

“Magic doesn’t work like that.” Tom whispered. His mind was a mess, running circles around and around. Things didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t tell if it was the lack of information or his own lack of education.  _ Was  _ it possible to survive the killing curse? Had it...was it something achievable now?

No, if it was then Harry Potter wouldn’t be so famous. It was still odd, unexplained. There was no such thing as coincidence or luck, things always failed due to flaws. Harry Potter was no such holy being, he was not blessed or spared in the fate of the devil. He existed due to the flaws of this Dark Lord, an oversight he hadn’t known.

Harry Potter existed due to...to some..divine effort. Some sort of unexplained miracle that everyone wrote off. Tom didn’t believe in that- he prayed but he did not believe in mercy and salvation of the Lord. There was something wrong about Harry Potter, that the ministry feared and marked him as a target.

Tom slid the thick book back on the shelf, fingers trailing over its old spine.

The book had been specific, listing the hearings and results of ministry hearings. Death Eaters, caught and convicted after the end of the war. 

(And entire  _ war passed  _ in Tom’s absence. An entire  _ war. _ )

A few names he recognized, knew their ancestors. Lestrange, Black, Crabbe, Nott. He knew their faces, from his classmates and upper years, Parkinson’s thick jawline as he ate unripe pears at breakfast. 

They were all dead, or gone. Mysteriously so, leaving behind children he didn’t know but recognized in names. Abraxas Malfoy. Cygnus Black. They left behind a legacy- one of which frequented the corridors near the covered bridge.

Malfoy, Tom recognized. Harry Potter had ranted about him, seething the name. Legacy or not, it seemed that the connotation of dark magic had seeped into Pureblood names themselves. 

Tom turned and walked out of the library, careful to not draw attention. He took no books with him, left no prints for what he knew and what he didn’t.

Malfoy was easy to recognize. Platinum blonde hair- shorter than his grandfather. His jawline was sharper too, a curve to his nose that reminded Tom of the rounded shift of Cygnus. Purebloods interbred, made offspring noble in everything but intelligence.

Tom watched him with darkened eyes, and judged him for what he knew.

Malfoy was listed as the Death Eaters- or at least his father had been tried and found to be under the Imperius curse. Simple, foolproof, stupid. More likely he had been caught, and scrambled to remain clear in name.

Tom tapped his wand, running his fingers over the smooth wood. It rested against his forearms, warm and comforting. He wished he had a knife, able to slip between ribs if he needed it.

One of the lackeys noticed him, the more gluttonous one. Thick face, no distinction between jaw and neck. He could carve away the fat and lard, feed the birds suet ground from his bones and still have enough for dinner. Tom hated him by definition.

“Oi!” The one shouted, squinting at him. The taller one had features Tom couldn’t remember outside of  _ maybe  _ dinner in the Great Hall. “Who’re you?’

Tom didn’t respond. The two approached. Malfoy swaggered, cloak flapping around his thick boots. Brand new, expensive, unnecessary.

A long time ago, Tom would have made himself humble. He would have smiled and seduced Malfoy until the poor sod was craving his own praise. Weak mind, weak willed. Tom had little care for things now.

“Malfoy.” Tom deadpanned. Voice dull, strong. Malfoy jerked slightly, the smile wavering ever so slightly.

“Oi! Who’re you?” Malfoy asked, one hand through his hair as the other tapped on his wand. “Eh? You mute?”

Tom didn’t blink. “He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. What is his name.”

Malfoy flinched, looking offended before he drew his wand dramatically. “What! Grab a book yourself! I’m not your bloody paper boy! You hear me, eh? You thick or something?”

_ ‘What a disgrace.’  _ Tom thought to himself, mourning the loss of Abraxas to the years. 

“What is his name.” Tom stated, calm and uncaring.

Something must have unsettled Malfoy, either Tom’s deposition or his flat affect. It bothered him, a hint of animal fear tainting the corner of his light eyes. 

One of Malfoy’s lackeys cracked his knuckles menacingly. Tom had murdered a man twice his size with a  _ brick. _

“I don’t have time for this,” Tom said. “If you don’t know, it’s unbecoming to pretend.”

Malfoy flushed, easy to rile. 

“It’s  _ Lord Voldemort,  _ you filthy  _ mudblood.”  _ Malfoy sneered, although he too flinched as he said the words. “‘You too daft to learn basic history? You need someone to tie your boots too?”

Lord Voldemort. French.  _ Flight from Death. _

Why, would a British wizard claim a french title?

(Tom knew, why  _ he  _ would use French.  _ There’s no such thing as good and evil. _ )

Tom turned, eerily leaving without acknowledging Malfoy’s slurs. 

Tom walked, forcing his breathing to stay steady. His hands itched, his eyes felt raw and burned. Eerily, the skin below his nostrils felt hot, feverish although the rest of his skin felt more akin to chilled.

It was perhaps a bit past noon, but the joys of self-education mandated that Tom constructed his own schedule. 

He couldn’t possibly think- let alone- let alone  _ learn when- _

“ _ Vol de mort.”  _ Tom spoke, tongue rolling around in foreign tongue. Frogs always said things so romantically, a caress on his tongue. 

Tom slipped into the hospital wing. He locked his bedroom. He pulled out his potions and turned a blind eye to his clock. It was the afternoon and Tom couldn’t think.

Who would choose  _ french  _ for a title, when they were distinctly British?

_ “There is no such thing as good and evil, only power and those too weak to seek it.”  _ Tom said, tongue lolling. Loving in that gentle tone that French man told to him at death’s doors. 

Tom tipped back the Dreamless Sleep Potion, settled himself on his bed, and tried to keep himself together a bit longer.

(Tom knew why one would choose French.)

_ He  _ had always planned to.

* * *

_ Before _

When Dennis had been comforted, and taken away to get ice cream with the aid, Ms. Wool had taken Tom aside.

He knew he was in trouble from the start, from the strict unhappy look on her face. Tom knew that she would be upset with him, but Tom had never really liked Dennis. It was worth it, to string up that rabbit from the rafters. Dennis didn’t even notice as his things went missing.

“Come with me.” Ms Wool snapped, her grip on his arm was too tight. He let himself be dragged along, shoes scraping on the ground as she hauled him down the street. Past the fence and out to the road- down the river. Were they going to the Thames?

“Where are we going?” He asked her. Her lip curled back angrily.

“I am  _ so sick  _ of you.”

Tom thought that was fair.

St. Mary-le-Bow Church was tall and pretty. Her large bells always rang out at noon. On Sundays they all filtered into her hall, sticking to the back and off the pews so the other city people could sit and worship. It was a Friday, so Tom was confused why Mrs. Wool was dragging him into her doors. He had never been inside St. Mary-le-Bow when not shoved in wool. When not squeezed into clothing too tight for him, with little ribbons strangling his throat.

Her ceilings were painted a soft blue, like the sky when they visited the countryside. Tom always found the colour interesting.

“Madam Wool, my child.” The old man said from the back. His clothing old and stiff looking. Tom had never seen the clergy out of it before, even on the picnics they sometimes had in the summer. “What has brought you to me?”

“I can’t take it,” Ms. Wool said, yanking Tom’s wrist to make him stumble forward, shoes tapping on the clean floor. “He- this- Father, he strung a rabbit from my  _ ceiling.” _

The man’s face furrowed, looking worried and unsure. “A rabbit, you say?”

“From my ceiling!” Ms. Wool said, pointing towards the roof of the cathedral. “Twelve feet, father! He snapped its neck!”

The priest’s brow furrowed more. “Do not worry, my child. You are in the house of God, and I see your suffering. We have heard your prayers, and we offer you safety.”

Ms. Wool dropped to her knees, hands covering her face. She was crying, thick shaking sobs. Tom stared in surprise and awe. He had never seen Ms. Wool cry before.

“I will send word to our local bishop, that his services are needed to redeem this child.” the priest smiled. He offered one hand kindly, gesturing for Tom to approach from the narrow walkway between the pews. “You are Tom? I have heard so much about you- will you aid me in our journey?”

Tom swallowed uncomfortably and nodded. He felt under-dressed, dirty in his normal clothes. The church was loud, it echoed weird without the dozens of people. He felt small.

Tom walked quietly, his steps echoing. Ms. Wool was still crying, her wails of relief sounded distorted and funny off the stained glass and old wooden benches.

“Don’t be afraid,” the priest said, he seemed much more friendly now instead of when he stood up at the altar on Sundays. “I keep my things below, would you come with me, my child?”

Tom didn’t want to. He nodded.

* * *

“Can you tell me, Tom? Do you hear whispers of temptation?”

Tom shifted, unsure. The new man looked less friendly. Older, scary. His eyes were sharp and in the lantern light he seemed to stare at Tom intently.

“I don’t know.” Tom said, struggling slightly.

The priest nodded, looking calm as he took Tom’s hands in his. “It’s okay now. We will help you now. Do you know, when you see the nurses how they tie your arm to prick your arm?”

Tom nodded once again, his tongue limp and unresponsive in his mouth.

“We will do the same, to keep you safe.” The priest smiled. “It’s okay now, my child. You can rest, and we will work.”

“When can I go back?” Tom asked.

“When the day of our Lord has ended.”

* * *

 

Tom waited, and waited.

Candles burned and he sneezed and gagged. His skin tickled and burned, searing hot where wax dripped.

“Can I go?” Tom asked, a soft whisper in the quiet room. “Please?”

Wax hurt, his skin itched. The lines along his shoulders were throbbing quite painfully.

“Just a bit longer, my child.”

* * *

_ “Most cunning serpent, you shall no more dare to deceive the human race, persecute the Church, torment God’s elect and sift them as wheat.” _

Tom stared, counting the grooves in the rocks of the cellar ceiling. It smelled like brimstone and paint, wet stinging acid and the salty burn of his tears.

They had cut open small spots along his arms- thin little nicks. They stuffed it with flowers and herbs like tea. It clotted like seed cakes and his blood turned it rancid black.

Tom lay there, all Saturday. All Sunday, until the Lord's Day came from the end.

Tom went home, limping and quiet. Ms. Wool seemed relieved, delighted to see him once more.

The snakes in the garden were still whispering to him.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!](https://discord.gg/SVrMbMS)


	11. Barba crescit caput nescit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Tom goes through his reasoning, decides what to do, and meets a man who once held the world and lost it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I hope you enjoy.  
> Parts of this chapter were written when I was on vacation- I just now got back.  
> I hope you all enjoy, this story is really starting to emphasize some of the greater thematic movements I've been itching to write.  
> I hope you all read and weep because it will only evolve from here.

Homework for the school term began to pile up at an alarming rate. Books and scrolls- page numbers and written assignments practically flooded the Fifth years. The upcoming OWLS were all anyone had to talk about, and the imminent stress that arose with it.

Transfiguration Class didn’t help, even with their head of house teaching them. They were learning the Vanishing Spell, one of the more trickier bits of magic they would all be tested on during the OWL certification. Even though Professor McGonagall reassured them numerous times, as the clock went on Harry found his stress only increasing.

By the end of a double period, only a select handful of students had any success. Hermione managed to vanish her snail but only a half dozen attempts later.

Both Harry and Ron still had their snails, fat yellow things that seemed determined to fight over eating Ron’s spare quill.

“This is bloody impossible.” Ron said, poking the snail shell with the tip of his wand. Harry’s snail at least was a few shades lighter. “Reckon that Hermione cheated?”

Harry knew better than to poke that sleeping dragon. “You snail died I think.”

“Huh.” Ron said, poking it again. “Think I’ll get excused then?”

The topics and classes were hard. All of them, each ranging from a wide assortment of assignments that seemed to have no relevance to the next. In their earlier years, each class would resemble another- linking subjects across different areas of academia. Now, with so much on the line for the OWL exams, it seemed that every teacher had a mind of their own.

Snape leapt instantly into the production of various toxins, perhaps hoping that Neville would be the smallest bit more careful when a single touch would cause pain. Professor Sprout jumped into invasive vines to southern Wales. Professor Flitwick started summoning charms (which Harry felt relieved to be learning considering he already knew it), and now McGonogall was assigning them to learn an entirely new spell on their own.

“This is bonkers!” Ron shouted, his red hair barely able to be seen from under the stack of bags and books he was barely carrying. “Nobody can do this amount of rubbish!”

Harry bit his tongue, when his mind filtered that apparently, ‘ _Tom Riddle did.’_

“Yeah well,” Harry grunted, his own books tiring his arms, “we still have other classes to get to.”

Ron moaned, already spitting out insults that Harry couldn’t help but smile at. It was the first time either of them felt relief at the crap that was Defence Against The Dark Arts, at least they wouldn’t have to learn new material on top of it.

The day had become cool with a subtle breeze between the treetops. Their next class was conducted outside, although Hagrid’s tall body was absent from the silhouettes of massive pines. Harry felt an occasional drop of rain against his face, smudging on his glasses. The clouds were cottony-soft and looked less intimidating than a downpour would warrant.

The old flagstones that made the ancient path to the forest were slippery from dew. Even as the sun peered down from the sky, the slight lichen and moss that clung to each stone remained undeterred. Professor Grubbly-Plank awaited them, standing proudly before a long wooden table. Harry could imagine a dozen house elves hauling the solid chunk of wood down the courtyard down the same stairs for her class.

“Oh no,” Ron muttered quietly, “Malfoy, right behind us.”

Harry didn’t look, but he could recognize the shrieking laughter of Pansy Parkinson anywhere. Whatever she heard must have been quite the hoot, because Rop and Harry could hear her barking sniggers all the way down the steps.

Ron bristled the moment Draco approached them, swaggering slightly side to side. His tie was unfastened slightly and his hair windswept in a way that suggested he tried to arrange it artfully but instead it resembled the rear end of a chicken.

“Got something on your face, Potter?” Draco asked, his gaggle of goons laughing once more. It didn’t take Hermione to know what the brunt of their joke was about.

Harry inhaled through his nose, feeling his ribs creak slightly from the stretch. Draco continued to sneer, lip curled unpleasantly until he looked past Harry to the forest line where the class was meeting.

Almost at once, the boy faltered. He paled rapidly, taking on a sick shade as he took three steps back in quick succession.

Harry could feel the eyes on the back of his head. The temperamental buzz near his nape like a dozen mosquitoes too furious to bite. His head hurt too- precisely behind his right eye.

Harry turned, looking in the direction behind him to meet Tom Riddle’s board disinterested eyes.

Sometimes there were no words to convey emotion or time; that nameless static that stretched between two points like curdling cream. Tom Riddle’s eyes met Harry’s and held them tenderly with an underlying burn of outright _fury._ A level of frustration, pain and anger so wicked sharp it could carve meat from the butcher’s hook.

Tom Riddle blinked and looked away uncaring. He had such bright beautiful eyes.

“Oh no, what’s _he_ doing here?” Ron asked, voice a bit too sharp. Harry realized with an unsettling chill down his back, that for Draco to flinch away so sharply before implied that he had run across Riddle before. It likely ended as Harry imagined it would.

“Well, looks like we have a class with him.” Harry said.

Almost on cue, Tom Riddle crossed his arms and leaned back against the pine tree he stood by., Professor Grubbly-Plank ignored him, going on wrangling the little green magical sticks which were hopping around chaotically.

“I don’t know, he’s looking pretty chummy to be a student.” Ron said, scowling pointedly at Tom Riddle’s lax figure.

The class formally gathered, standing before the table filled with- _bowtruckles,_ each of them attempting to offer the little green hands blueberries from the kitchens.

Tom didn’t take part. He watched them with that blank face and a hidden burning fire of hate and frustration. Something was deeply troubling the other; it was not in Tom’s nature to ask for help or speak of it, but Harry could feel it like a splinter under his fingernails.

Ron didn’t stop talking, mentioning over and over how _shady_ Tom looked, leaning so comfortably against the trees. How _better-than-us-he-thinks-he-is!_

Harry felt like arguing that Tom had already taken his OWLS, so he didn’t really need all the extra work and effort considering he had already finished. Harry didn’t think that would go over well with Ron.

Class wrapped up quickly when Malfoy and his gang weren’t causing trouble. It seemed that having Tom there, even for an undetermined reason, demanded respect and peace within the class. Crabbe managed to only squeeze his bowtruckle too tightly once, but it bit him hard enough his thumb swelled to the size of a small apple.

Tom watched them, eyes shaded in the shadow from the trees. When Harry spotted his eerie presence from the corner of his eye, it looked like he was glaring at them all.

“What a bastard.” Ron growled, stomping angrily back towards the castle. “Didn’t even join our bloody class! If he’s so excited about bowtruckles-.”

Harry zoned out, turning his head at the barest trace of another voice. An accented blur of something audible that tickled the back of his ears like a cotton swab.

Harry spotted the snake, a simple grass species that frequented the Forbidden Forest. IT slithered across the ground, pointed in its direction as it whispered nothings to itself and the world around it. Blind, dumb, and stupid, it was nothing compared to that thick heaven corrupted voice of the basilisk. It didn’t bring back any fond memories.

Why was a snake so far out here? Harry didn’t believe that it was a coincidence, snakes were mostly quiet unless they had an audience at the time.

The only conclusion, was one Tom Riddle that burned his gaze into Harry’s back the entire walk up to the castle.

* * *

 

He was cranky, and it was odd.

Tom normally seemed composed and well put. A bit unhinged at times, but to the normal person Tom was just another student that perhaps ignored everyone else.

Twice now, Harry had seen Tom snapping and snarling wordlessly at someone else. The first time, Tom’s anger had been directed at a group of Slytherins- perhaps the year above or below. Harry couldn’t hear what was said, but from body language and bird posturing, he gathered it wasn’t good.

The second time Harry saw Tom snarling, it was significantly worse.

Tom was tall, thin and wiry in a way which spoke of potential height but a fragility to his bones. The thinness of his wrists, and the thick rope muscle of his throat. Unnatural structure of muscle and strength on a skeleton too frail to support him.

Tom’s hand was curled in a younger student’s collar, tight around a tie from a poor Hufflepuff. One thin skinned hand curled upwards, clawed and bent like a white bone claw from a raptor. Tom’s lips were drawn, his teeth on display as the poor Hufflepuff looked ready to wet himself.

“Tom!” Harry shouted, rushing before his mind caught up. His feet slapping the ground, loud and obnoxious as his breathing puffed through his cheeks. The Hufflepuff whimpered, eyes so wide the whites were well on display. Harry’s nose wrinkled at a sour sharp smell- he wasn’t fast enough to stop the poor boy.

“Harry.” Tom said, spitting the name between clenched teeth in a ragged noise. “Leave.”

“If you think I’m walking away now, you’re bloody bonkers.”

“Oh, always the _hero.”_ Tom hissed, his hand relaxing and sending the boy plummeting to the ground. The Hufflepuff landed damply, skittering off with hitching sobs.

Harry felt his throat squeeze, the icy tone in which Tom spoke froze the air with his loathing. A temperamental beast, itching to draw blood.

“Oh not that shite.” Harry said, “not from you.”

Tom’s hand stretched and clenched. Each finger long and thin- skin tight and pale to each bone. Harry knew that if he traced the ridges, he would be able to feel each knob and protrusion from each bone in his palm.

Tom exhaled slowly through his nose. A raging fire of absolute _revulsion._

Harry swallowed thickly, and tried to resist the urge to tremble.

“Not from me.” Tom said flatly. His voice a deadpan that somehow sounded more utterly loathing then any form of shouting. “Of course. Never from me- not a fan of emonomancy?”

“I don’t know what that word means, but you _can’t_ just bully other people. That’s not how life works.”

Tom’s upper lip twitched as he shifted his body. Changing his posture and the axis of his ribs and hips to face Harry fully. “You think I don’t know how life works? I know better than you.”

“I’m not some naive innocent child,” Harry said coldly, “so stop being a goddamn twat.”

“Oh _I’m_ the twat? Me? Not the- the _great Harry Potter._ Able to take down the Dark Lord with a single word! Able to banish him as a _baby!”_

Harry froze. His heart thundered on, oblivious, uncaring.

“Where did you hear that?” Harry said.

There was a sort of febrecity to Tom’s eyes, almost jagged edge to his gestures. Harry watched them, unnerved and frightened. He had faced Lord Voldemort before, but that man was deranged and beyond the plight of bullying Hufflepuffs.

 _‘He bullied Cedric.’_ Harry’s brain betrayed him. _‘He killed Cedric.’_

Tom closed his mouth, having never said anything at all. He watched Harry with fascination, feverish curiosity that ultimately fell victim to savage loathing.

“Tell me Harry,” Tom said, “what does it feel like to meet the eyes of the person who killed you?”

It hung, Tom’s smile turning cruel as he waited for no reply. The burning in Harry’s throat, the raw exposed feeling that his heart thrummed with every _bu-dum, bu-dum._

Tom stormed off like lightning; electric, lethal, and leaving Harry suspended in darkness once more.

* * *

 

“We have a problem,” Harry said the moment he spotted Ron and Hermione. “Tom is bullying students.”

Ron jerked his head up, “if it’s Slytherins, mate, it isn’t a problem.”

Hermione made a noise of protest, grabbing a nearby object to fling at Ron’s face. It happened to be a slug, given that Ron still hadn’t mastered vanishing. The slug adhered like melting bubblegum, slowly advancing to investigate the gap between Ron’s eyebrows.

“Oh Ron! I’m sorry!” Hermione cried, hastily flicking her wand to vanish the snail. “Harry! What happened? Is the student okay? Oh we should have gone to a teacher or…”

“It’s fine!” Harry interjected, lifting both hands to show that he was alright. “Honestly, I think he was just...in a bad mood.”

Ron huffed. “Mate, ‘in a bad mood’ is like, eating puppies. Wouldn’t put it past him either.”

Harry frowned, reaching with one hand to scratch just above his right eye. “Is it that hard to imagine he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Hermione chewed her lip. “You sound like you’re defending him. Was the student cursed badly?”

Harry blinked. “He wasn’t even cursed. He just...sprung a leak. And ran off once I chewed into Riddle a bit.”

Ron rolled his eyes, already shifting back to studying. It wasn’t so much studying, as his attempt to stack snails on top of one another until they fell off.

Hermione twisted back, rapidly vanishing to try and keep the slimy tower from ruining her notes. Harry found the conversation already broken, and felt almost offended with how quick they were to dismiss it.

Something was bothering Riddle. Based on how he was lashing out, it likely was touching him more foully than anything else. Harry had no idea what- Tom didn’t seem like someone so simple as to get stressed over assignments. Maybe his...evil villains club had a scheduling conflict?

Harry knew one person- two really, who could find out anything if properly incentivised. Considering that both Twins were experimenting with products from the recent financial boom of the Triwizard Tournament…

“Afraid we can help.” Fred said solemnly, tapping his head twice as George kept up the sad facade. “Poor bastard gets up at the arse crack of dawn. Manages to avoid most our nasties too.”

“Got him once with a sleepwalker serum,” George noted, “supposed to give some exercise when you snooze. Didn’t work though, reckon he slept like a bloody baby.”

“He’s got to do it somehow, or he’d be a bad baby dark lord.” Fred clicked his tongue. “He gets to the Breakfast right as it opens, sometimes waits for it in the hall.” George said. “Set an alarm, he’s weirdly mellow in the morning. Thaws out by seven.”

Harry gawked. “ _Seven?_ What time does he get _up?”_

“Five,” both twins said in unison, “he’s in his room by nine.”

 _“Nine?”_ Harry blinked quickly as he couldn’t fathom the idea. “He’s in bed by bloody _nine?”_

“Reckon it’s sunset.” Fred conspired, “follows the sun like the goddamn loon he is.”

Apparently, Tom was a morning bird.

* * *

 

Tom was in the Great Hall at six in the morning. Ten minutes past six, Harry was stumbling into the morning light with a mad cowlick and a foggy brain.

Harry slid into the bench seat next to Tom, feeling slightly mad with how exhausted he was. The morning was soft and gentle, clean and nearly absent of everyone else. Owls hopped around, stretching their wings as they plucked at stale pastries from the day before.

A house elf appeared, squinting at Harry in equal confusion and delight. It asked him eagerly what he would like; Harry managed to croak out toast and juice before it squealed and vanished away.

Tom turned then, squinting at Harry like he hadn’t noticed the boy’s approach. Tom’s entire body was relaxed, near boneless in the morning. His eyes slightly glazed from sleep, his skin pale and fingertips rosy where he clutched his mug tightly.

“Morning.” Harry grunted, fishing for his toast. He over stretched too far, missing the crust to stab his finger in the middle of the melting butter. Cursing, he stuck his finger in his mouth to lick off the melting butter.

“You’re so blind.” Tom muttered, affectionately and nearly _crooning._ He swayed ever so slightly, looking equally exhausted. “ _So_ blind. You’d die so fast.”

“Tried it, doesn’t work.” Harry muttered, managing to find the crust.

Tom laughed into his mug, the sound muted and distorted with bubbles. The sunlight filtered itself slightly through the stained glass windows; Tom’s eyes looked like mercury instead of the normal icy blue.

“So you’ve been cranky.” Harry said careless of his own mortality. “Bite any first year’s heads yet?”

Tom made a low humming noise, sipping from his constantly refilling mug. “N-no?”

Tom stuttered, barely aware of it. Harry felt suddenly much more awake.

“Are you going to punch me?” Harry asked randomly.

“Are you going to stab _me?”_ Tom retorted, eyes glazed and tired as he went so far as to drag Harry’s cooling toast over to mow down on it. Crumbs sprinkled over his lap, spilling onto his empty plate.

“You’re weirdly chatty in the morning.” Harry noted. He took a sip himself; swishing orange juice around and chewing pulp between his molars.

“In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice,” Tom said, tilting his head slightly as he stared at two owls fighting over a half eaten baguette, “in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly.”

“What,” said Harry wisely.

Tom turned his neck, his body stationary. The bags under his eyes were slightly violet- silvery also like his eyes. “You want something from me, don’t you?”

Harry balked. He hadn’t actually, he just wanted to know why Tom was attacking everyone like a very angry porcupine. Equally prickly as well.

“I want to just wake up and drink my juice.” Harry lifted his glass of orange juice, watching as it refilled before his eyes.

Tom blinked slowly and tiredly. “I had methamphetamine before you sent me into ‘fis ‘ell.” Tom swayed slightly again, his tongue thick in his mouth as once more that graceless Cockney began to emerge. “I ‘magin that Daft’dore wouldn’t let me ‘ave ‘em, or that Mediwitch, do wot. Likely turned ter dust any roads wot. Do yet know where cop any?”

Harry leaned back, wishing that an owl would slam into his skull and rattle the sense into what the bloody nonsense Tom just said.

“Wait- _meth?”_ Harry fished from the garbled nonsense. “Isn’t that like- Meth? _Cocaine?_ I- those are _very illegal now.”_

“Oh.” Tom blinked slowly and sleepily, “pity. More smokes then.”

Why was this a good idea at all? Why was this a good idea _at all?_

“You don’t look like someone who smokes,” Tom said, this time in a perfect accent that to Harry’s ears, had no accent at all. “You _did_ kill me, so maybe you do.”

“I didn’t kill you!” Harry argued, flinching so heavily orange juice sloshed over the edge of his cup. “I- you’re _you.”_

Tom stared at the birds on the far side of the hall, now raking one another with large hooked talons. Tufts of downy feathers fluffed in the air, sticking in warmed cream and turning it useless.

“There’s so much food here.” Tom mused, ignoring Harry completely, “more than I dreamed of. Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are…”

Tom trailed off, now murmuring low under his breath as his fingers twitched, pressing against his sternum and forehead and the bony protrusion of each shoulder.

“Are you bloody high?” Harry asked, curious and fascinated.

Tom snorted ugly, pausing to rub both eyes but slowly coming out of whatever odd behaviour he had before. “No, I’m certainly not. What are you doing here Potter?”

Harry was honest. “You’ve been aggressive and I’m worried why.”

Tom’s neck snapped quietly as a vertebra popped near his jaw. His eyes were smoldering, a crucible filled with metal that slowly hardened into aquamarine. “How strange of you to say _worried,_ boy hero.”

“Don’t call me that.” Harry said. “I’m not a hero.”

Tom looked at him, transforming into someone foreign and new and someone Harry recognized to pin young boys against walls.

“No,” Tom said, “you aren’t.”

* * *

 

Tom was getting letters in the mail.

Boring dull brown owls. Barn Owls with feathered feet depositing parchment secured with standard fabric thong. A small pull and the letter unraveled, lower quality than a wax seal. Able to purchase in a half million different stores. Unremarkable, untraceable.

The first letter, only a few days into term, Tom opened the letter uncaring. Everything was scanned for possible illegal merchandise or cursed letters. The students that attempted to owl order alcohol or dark artifacts in his day were suitably stopped. The few students so bold as to try to join Grindelwald through letters were cursed out and hung from the rafters by their cloaks. Tom watched them, hanging there like chickens in a butcher shop, and imagined that they hung by scarves instead.

The letters kept coming, every other day for a while before they were once a week. October was sweet in her grand entry, painting the leaves the colours of sunrise and plucking them from trees. With her entry, the letters began to frequent much more.

They were small things, sweet like a lover with nightshade.

 _‘Hello Tom! I miss you…’_ the first one read.

 _‘Tom, won’t you talk back to me?’_ the fourteenth read.

Tom exhaled calmly and pulled the cloth strip. The letter unraveled in the same handwriting. Insignificant and ominous in its statement.

_‘When is your Hogsmeade? I want to see you.’_

Tom would avoid Doge as much as he could.

“You won’t be seeing me at all.” Tom said quietly, tapping his wand and whispering a charm to turn the letter to ash. The situation had escalated, finances be damned.

His head throbbed, sore and aching at the back. It was his constant companion, sinking in at noon and only increasing in its screaming. He managed to tame it, quiet it's loud screams at dusk only to repeat the cycle. He hadn’t the time to concern himself with the obsessive desires of an old foul man. He had priorities, he had goals, he had to figure out how to deal with _Potter._

Potter, who was supposed to kill him, who _had_ killed him. Potter, who in fractured memories arose at the first rays of dawn to interrogate him over...toast?

Tom couldn’t remember; his head pounded and his thighs throbbed with black pustules he’d have to confront soon. Once he resolved his...reliance on Dreamless Sleep potions, he could bring up the issue. It was likely nothing more than scabies, something uncomfortable but ultimately easy to fix.

The problem with Potter was much worse. Even the Malfoy boy- _not Abraxas-_ couldn’t help him with the finer details. The textbooks, both old and new didn’t cover extensive information as to his- _Lord Voldemort’s,_ fall. Tom had watched Harry Potter, seen his piss poor performance in classes and couldn’t fathom how this... _dunce_ could possibly best him.

Tom didn’t have all of the information and the only one that did was bloody Dumbledore. The man who failed him over and over again until it became an expectation.

Dumbledore had the information he wanted, but for some misunderstood reason the Potter boy had... _pity,_ for Tom. A source of sympathy that both worked in Tom’s flavour and stabbed him in the...hand. It was inconvenient, rude, disgusting but possible to wield. Tom may as well bend over and grit his teeth, because offering himself as such a victim was essentially the same to his pride.

Tom didn’t need to write anything down. He knew enough about Dumbledore and people with too large hearts, he knew how to make them bleed.

Tom walked, leaving the ash behind him. He had a Gryffindor lion to string up by his throat.

* * *

 

Harry jumped, flinching so hard he nearly fell from his chair. Ron made a noise that sounded similar to an alarmed pigeon, falling from his chair completely. Hermione gave a small _yeep!_

Tom Riddle stood there, his eyes slightly narrowed as he stared pointedly at Harry and nobody else.

“I want you to take me to Dumbledore.” Tom said.

“Uh, no.” Harry said.

“ _What!”_ Ron contributed from the ground, scrambling back onto his chair, “oh you want to talk to Dumbledore, eh? Go ahead, get locked up in Azkaban-.”

“Silencio.” Tom said, flicking his wand without taking his eyes off Harry once. Ron’s mouth moved in the movement of a fish gasping for sweet watermelon cubes. “Take me to Dumbledore. You all have a lot to explain.”

“Harry doesn’t have to explain anything!” Hermione squeaked out, swallowing nervously as Tom very slowly slid his eyes over to the frizzy hair girl. “He- this is Hogwarts-.”

“Go right ahead.” Tom said flatly. “I’ll ask someone else. Like my _alternative self.”_

Hermione stiffened and froze. Ron began to pound his fist on the table-top, that sound too, was silent.

“Fine, I’ll take you to Professor Dumbledore.” Harry said, undeniably impulsivity spurring himself into action. “I’ve got class today with Umbridge-.”

“Ignore her.”

“I- _Harry no!_ She is our _Professo-.”_

“Fine.” Harry said, jerking his chin upright as he stared with a glare at Tom who glared back. “Why though? I want them to know so if you kill me, I have an alibi.”

Tom shifted his jaw, a slight change of the muscle of his neck. “I have questions I don’t trust you to answer. I want to speak to Crina Dimitriu, which is within my right. I’m _asking_ that Dumbledore be there as well, so I can hear what excuses he has to offer.”

Harry felt half tempted to say that he didn’t need to do anything. He didn’t need to answer to Tom- to spill secrets he kept close to his heart. Harry didn’t _know_ why he survived. Harry didn’t _know_ why Voldemort liked him so much. He didn’t _know_ why-

Cedric died for him, and Tom Riddle had _no right_ prying into information like that.

If Harry didn’t take him to Dumbledore, then he would...what, try to meet with-.

_The-Boy-Who-Lived, come to die-_

“Fine.” Harry said. “But Professor Dumbledore has nothing to explain to you.”

Tom lifted his chin ever so slightly, the warmth in Harry’s chest that gave an impression of mute contentment, thrummed. Tom wasn’t happy with the arrangement, but he wasn’t outright disappointed. It was an exchange, a deal being struck with neither winning or losing.

Which meant that Tom didn’t want to meet with Dumbledore, he actually _did_ want to meet with Crina; it wasn’t a threat or blackmail. Tom wanted to meet with his...therapist.

 _‘Well,’_ Harry thought, _‘maybe he’ll be less cranky.’_

* * *

 

The castle of Nurmengard was unlike anything else. Progressive, archaic, a mixture of ingredients and ideas that created a violent elixir of unknown potential. It was something terrifying, that even the Dementor guarded prison of Azkaban could not stop.

It was pretty outside. The trees were lush, growing well. A squirrel chewed attentively on an acorn, sitting back on thin haunches. Harry couldn’t help but look around, to admire the tiny wildflowers that would fade when winter struck.

“Stay on the path,” Dumbledore spoke, voice firm and serious. The path was little more than a dirt trail, packed down and showing stone in a few spots. There was gravel sprinkled about, filling the deeper pits where water would gather.

“Why?” Harry asked, being sure to remain in the middle of the dirt path. The lush grass wouldn’t tempt him off. “Will it hurt me?”

Dumbledore’s expression remained stony. Calm, but with a very intent expression of withheld frustration. Something about the castle and this place displeased him, something about it battled with what he stood for. Harry found himself more unsettled, either by the unusual passionate expression of disdain and aggression towards such a peaceful place, or by the fact that straying from a small path deserved such a warning. Tom seemed uncaring, ignoring them both as he began swiftly down the path towards the old stone castle in the clearing.

“Nurmengard Castle is not unlike our Azkaban, Harry.” Dumbledore said. “Instead of Dementors, there are different guards. Those which seem natural, but have little care for the fate of their prisoners.”

Harry squinted around, peering between the trees for any sort of large black cloaked figure. He couldn’t see anything, he couldn’t feel the chill in the air. A different chill from the overwhelming surge of emotional tides that pulled Tom in their riptide. A different feeling in the wind.

“What is it, sir?”

Dumbledore turned his eyes skywards, where a bird was leisurely riding the thermals. It was a nice day out, gentle with the warning breath of a cold front approaching. It would be a good day to fly. “The buzzards, are the watchful eyes of Nurmengard.”

Harry felt his mind stutter as he looked at the unassuming bird enjoying itself above. “That thing, sir? Isn’t it just an animal?”

“I would have thought you’d think more of animals, what with Professor McGonagall, and your godfather.”

Harry nearly twitched in realization. “That’s an animagus? The guards of Nurmengard are animagi?”

“Unfortunately not.” Dumbledore said, “we best keep walking. The walls of Nurmengard will shelter us from so many watchful eyes.”

Harry looked around, and flinched. From the trees, greenish yellow eyes were reflecting back at him. Dark figures low to the ground, impossible to see in the shade of low hanging healthy brambles. He count three, four different pairs. Scattered through the trees, luminescent in animal reflection. Harry hadn’t heard them approach.

“Come, Harry.” Dumbledore said. “We should move on.”

They walked, nearing the large castle. It looked beautiful, reclusive and elaborate. The weathered limestone spoke of age, yet the careful detailing along the stonework spoke of a time before even the Scottish castles. The steps up into the main entry hall were large- easily able to accommodate a crowd of people. It felt haunting, lonely and quiet for the two of them to enter through thick oak doors. Tom hadn’t waited for them, already slipping inside out of sight with little hesitation. Harry wished he held similar courage.

Harry held the door open, making sure it didn’t hit Dumbledore as the man made his way in slowly. Taking his time and remaining comfortable as they prepared to face a collection of monsters in human form.

Harry glanced out into the sunshine, stilling as he saw their new visitor. A creature he didn’t recognize at first- certainly nothing that Hagrid had taught them. It was large, even standing its shoulders would likely reach the lowest bone of Harry’s ribcage. It was dark, soft looking with a plush coat of fur. Wide eyes, a pointed muzzle with undoubtedly sharp teeth.

“The Lupescu.” Dumbledore said, startling Harry out of his observation. “They are Nurmengard executioners.”

“What are they?” Harry asked, eyes looking down at the thick paws. Almost like a lion paw, but pointed. The eyes looked at him, its body frozen like a statue where they had _just_ walked.

“Wolves, my boy.” Dumbledore said. He sounded pained, hurt somewhat by the sight of them. “They are Grey wolves, but more.”

“Animagi?” Harry squinted at them, able to pick out the faintest trace of russet patterning along it’s dark fur. Its face was white, like it dipped the front of its head into an open paint can.

“No.” Dumbledore said simply. “They are intelligent creatures, but do not make the mistake of treating them like a wizard. Treat them with more caution, for they do not have the concerns and mercy that even the darkest of souls still possess.”

The Lupescu shifted, slowly turning its thick head away to look into the trees. Now that Harry could see its body, it _did_ look like a dog. The only dog Harry knew well, besides Ripper, was his godfather in his animagus form. Even then, this...creature, would dwarf Sirius by leaps and bounds. The size of this thing would likely be on par with Moony, maybe even bigger with the thick fur and tall pointed ears.

“Are they normally that big?” Harry asked. The animal looked disproportionately large- big enough to ride. Even Hagrid would have likely paused at the sight of it, but still small enough to fit through a doorway unhindered.

“Lupescu are all quite large,” Dumbledore said, “they are...the consequence, of man’s greatest flaw.”

The wolf tilted its head, its fur ruffled in a slight breeze. Thick and soft, eyes cruel and curious.

“You see Harry,” Dumbledore sighed, “when we turn our minds towards a goal with our heart, nothing- not even nature and magic herself, can prevent our error.”

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. He was suddenly very thankful for the thick stone walls and the heavy oak doorway they stood in. It suddenly seemed much more reasonable, that the castle functioned to keep them safe from the outdoors.

Harry’s breathing hitched, when he realized quite chillingly, that there were now five large wolfish beasts hugging the treeline. Watching them with curious eyes and silent feet. Each with different fur and minds, each with equal danger.

“I can’t think of anyone who would do this, sir.” Harry confessed, the words choking in his throat temporarily.

Dumbledore sighed. Heavy, weary. Harry couldn’t figure why the man would seem so tired at the face of such animals.

“In youth….” Dumbledore paused, speaking quietly and ashamed. “We believe many things, and make many mistakes. We are not damaged, but oh Harry, we are so flawed.”

The Lupescu, standing in the middle of the road they had come from, pulled its thick gums back in a wordless snarl.

Tom didn’t wait for them, and he gave no glance towards both Dumbledore and Harry’s quiet steps. Tom reclined back against the stone support pillars, the edge of the room as both Harry and Dumbledore took attention. They could both nearly see their breath in the air.

“Oh, hello there.” A young lady said. She seemed oddly out of place in the gloomy castle. Bright eyes and a thick wool cloak. It was a nice shade of dark red, although she had a thick knitted scarf and fur mittens she quickly removed at their sight. “I saw the entry light, did you have an appointment?”

Tom hung back, steps quiet and face pensive. Harry shifted uncomfortably under the bright curious eyes of the young woman. She couldn’t be much older than Bill was.

“I’m afraid we arrived abruptly.” Dumbledore said, sounding as regretful as Harry felt for imposing. “If you pass along word to Madame, we would be grateful.”

The young woman blinked owlishly, the lantern light making her look more like a trolley aid then the receptionist at one of the most feared prisons in the world.

“Oh, her schedule is open for a little.” The woman chewed her lower lip. On the other side of her desk she had great big oil lanterns, like those on old whaling boats. She had a thin register book on her desk, perhaps two dozen pages sewn into its old cracked spine. Harry notes that only a few pages had been filled, and the earliest date was a near century ago.

“The Madame,” the woman tested the word to her delight, foreign and new to her obviously, “will have the day’s report in an hour or so. I’ll need you to sign the guest registry, and the basic search for not permitted magical items. We also store wands, Floo powder, portkeys and other such transportation devices in our secured wardroom. Blood locked of course! Can I have your names please?”

“Of course,” Dumbledore smiled. “Would you prefer full names, or simplified?”

“Simplified, not too much space here for the next four decades!” The woman said, tapping the book casually.

“Very well, Albus Dumbledore. Harry Potter, and Tom Riddle are here with me.”

The woman hummed and nodded, working on something behind her desk. Harry noticed that she had two braids, curled up and over the top of her head like ram horns. They looked terribly difficult.

“You’ve been playing hard to get for a while now, Mr. Dumbledore.” The woman teased, passing over a small box the size Hedwig could carry. “The Madame has been cursing your name for years! Did the lupescu treat you alright? I believe Aegis is patrolling the halls right now but I could be wrong.” The woman tittered away, passing out two more identical boxes to both Harry and Tom.

“They were fine.” Tom clipped out abruptly. The woman’s cheer didn’t fade.

“That’s good, they sometimes get a bit snippy to guests ever since that committee from Italy...” she trailed off, “ah well, don’t we all get a bit mean to rude people? Anyways, follow me, don’t get lost or you may lose a leg or two!”

With that warning, she hoisted up one of the large oil lanterns and began down the leftmost path. They walked after, each holding their boxes until they slipped into a tall open roofed building. It resembles an owlery above them, with deep slots carved into the stone and the open day sky.

“Here’s our storage room,” The woman announced cheerfully. “We’re a no magic facility, so please remove all objects and possessions. There’s a slot inside the top for your wand, don’t worry we take good care of everything.”

Tom was the first to move. Drawing his wand and sliding it into the wand case inside his box. Without pausing, he shucked off his cloak and emptied his pockets, leaving him in fairly average clothing.

Harry watched as from the sky, a large dark bird descended from the open skylight. It flipped rapidly, landing in a hopping flop on the ground between them and the doorway. It snatched the rope handle on the box awkwardly, clicking its beak before flying up to deposit it on a shelf.

Tom didn’t look alarmed. He looked withdrawn and quiet and watched as the bird returned to carry both Albus’ and Harry’s box away out of grabbing distance.

“It’s to prevent any jailbreaks or loss of personal artifacts.” Their guide said. “I know, but we did have one attempt! Animagus didn’t last long here, that poor terrier against Aegis...”

Harry shivered and hurried, making sure to stay within the light of the lantern.

Through the stone walls, he could hear a muffled sort of shouting. Moans and screams that likely belonged to the prisoners below. The worst of the worst, only rock walls and large wolves between them and freedom.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking the long path, watch your step!”

Tom followed quickly, and they walked.

The castle would have been pretty if not for the darkness of it. Another preventative measure, Harry was sure. It was claustrophobic inducing, muggy with small passages. The lanterns only lit so far but this woman didn’t seem too uncomfortable with the castle. A strange woman no doubt.

“Here we are!” She announced, pausing before a massive wood door with thick metal bolting all along the top and bottom. She didn’t knock so much as slam the edge of the lantern against the wood, thumping loudly through the thick door.

After three knocks, she stepped back and waited politely.

The door opened dramatically on silent hinges. Sliding on an old metal mechanism that looked a little like magic. Crina Dimitriu appeared, her face illuminated by two smaller, but stationary lanterns just inside the thick door.

“You don’t tend to Inter-“ Crina paused, eyes skimming over the entourage quickly. “Albus Dumbledore.”

Albus didn’t smile. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgement.

Crina breathed through her nose, it whistled slightly. “All these years, and you finally cave. Who am I to thank for this visit?”

“They’re offering me answers.” Tom said flatly. Coldly from right next to their tour guide. The light from her larger lantern turned his face in half shadow. “I insisted you be present.”

Crina surveyed him, then the group once more. “You requested Harry Potter as well.”

Tom inclined his chin slightly. “I have the suspicion he is involved.”

Harry swallowed, he had the paranoid thought that somehow they could hear it.

“Come in,” Crina permitted, stepping to the side. Her coat was enormous and fur along the top, and looked silly. Her shoes clicked but her half step was silent. The antiquated style of the castle suited her well.

“Have a seat, permit me a moment.” Crina spoke in a murmur, breezing past to the desk that faced the doorway. Albus settled heavily on a stool, Harry and Tom on matching ones. There was one chair with a unique back, arching and specific where the others were not. They avoided it, in fear it had importance they did not know.

Crina closed books and marked pages. She had been in the middle of something that looked like herbology books. She slid the books onto a bookshelf near her, the attached shelving on the study desk was occupied by nameless leather books instead.

“I would ask more but given the look Albus is wearing, I dread to think of the headache this will cause me.” Crina sighed to herself, settling properly on her chair. “I have my...assigned warden arriving in forty minutes. You would not enjoy that discussion.”

It was an invitation as much as any, so with that Tom’s eyes flickered ever so quickly to Dumbledore.

The man sagged in his seat, looking tired and resigned. Crina looked impatient.

“The war.” Tom said simply, not a question but enough.

“There were...” Albus paused, “many losses. The muggles reverted to extraordinary violence. Of muggle Germany, Adolf Hitler was declared dead and Gellert Grindelwald arrested and tried for his crimes.”

Tom very pointedly looked at Crina. Harry noticed the flicker of pain and hurt over the blatant distrust of Albus’ information.

“Nazi Germany fell, Japan was bombed by two nuclear bombs. Agreements were instated over the cruel and unusual treatment of prisoners of war. The largest camp, Auschwitz is now a museum. Adolf Hitler is said to have committed suicide however it’s a delightful conspiracy. Gellert Grindelwald was returned to this very prison, and is my inmate.” Crina summarized sharply.

Tom inhaled and exhaled steadily. “The London Bombing?”

“Known as the London Blitz. Horrible, but a memory of war and nothing more.” Crina said, like a machine. “What else has he lied to you about?”

Harry wanted to argue, but there were times where even he had questions Dumbledore refused to answer.

“I’m alive.” Tom said flatly, staring at Albus like a statue. “I thought your men called me Dark Lord as an insult. I’m not. Grindelwald is in chains, and I’m alive.”

Albus nodded and said “yes.”

Tom nodded very slowly. “I’m this...Lord Voldemort.”

Crina spoke this time. “You are.”

Tom chewed on the thought, but something did not seem right with it. Harry felt cold, away from it all. Numb and empty like the day he heard the truth of how his parents died. It didn’t sit right, but the buzzing whisper behind his eyes told him that everything was okay.

“Why is everything about him?” Tom asked Crina, his eyes flickering to Harry.

Before Dumbledore could speak, Crina told him freely. “There’s a rumor that Harry Potter vanquished the Dark Lord as a baby. That he killed the Dark Lord Voldemort and has nothing more than a scar.”

Tom’s hand curled instantly into a fist on his thigh. His face, it did not change.

“Tom, you must understand. You were long since trapped by the-.”

“What makes you special?” Tom asked Harry, cold empty eyes stared into Harry’s soul. “How could you, an innocent powerless baby, stop a Dark Lord?”

Harry shivered, hearing the overlay of a memory and nothing more. On autopilot, he responded the same, “I guess I’m just lucky.”

Tom smiled like it hurt him, and said flatly “You kill me. I’m alive here now, are you going to kill me again?”

“No,” Harry shuddered, “it- it wouldn’t be right.”

“Okay.” Tom said, and he looked back at Crina. “Are you interested in me only because I grow up to be Lord Voldemort?”

“No, actually.” Crina confessed, “I care little for Voldemort, in truth your mind and magic is a sight to behold and I enjoy what you offer me. Albus Dumbledore contacted me, because I am the...mind healer, of Gellert Grindelwald.”

A thud, along the wall outside the room. Crina very subtly shifted a small paperweight to the side. “I would warn you that you’re in for a surprise, but please keep your outburst to a minimum.”

Tom smiled, it did not look friendly.

The door to the room opened slowly, flanked by what appeared to be a large wolf lupescu that shimmered copper in the lantern light. It held a small torch in its jaws, hanging so low it near scraped the floor. The fur was coarse and light, maybe yellow or gold outdoors but inside the confined space of Crina’s office all Harry could think of was how it’s teeth and glowing eyes made Fluffy look like a puppy.

“Hello Aegis, thank you so much for your aid.” Crina smiled to the lupescu, nodding respectfully at the behemoth of a creature. “I have visitors, but I do not wish to occupy unneeded time of yours.”

The wolf rumbled like one of Dudley’s loud rock bands. The kind where the vibrations slipped into your skin, and lived in the rattling of your bone marrow. The wolf turned, managing to fit through the doorway once more to leave, drawing attention to their new guest.

“Well well,” an accented near laughing wheeze of an old man standing before something quite remarkable, “it’s been a while, Albus.”

Albus Dumbledore turned white like chalk, one hand lifting to cover his mouth in dismay. “Gellert, your...”

Gellert Grindelwald laughed, a high pitched noise that left Harry shivering in his seat. The sort of terror that shot down his spine like a rod and left him exposed and on display like a stuffed parrot. The kind of terror, where he would chew off his own leg to escape.

“A change of pace,” Gellert hissed, wiggling the amputated remnants of both arms, ending well above his elbow. “A precaution, you see. Accidental magic is so...finicky.”

Albus, horrified beyond words, could not speak.

Tom exhaled quietly, like a breeze through a window.Harry could feel it, that hollow bird cage that made up his lungs and ribs. It rattled, catching in his throat and causing his chest to squeeze. He felt out of body as Tom Riddle said, “The Dark Lord Grindelwald. King of a castle where he is a prisoner.”

Grindelwald looked at Tom, and looked beyond that. He smiled sharply, exposing yellow teeth and what looked like early tooth decay. “The warden’s pet. Here in the flesh, and a bastard nonetheless.”

Tom tensed, and turned his head to pointedly look at the stumps of his arms. “I wish I could have done that myself.”

“As if you the power to.”

Tom inclined his head slightly. “A hungry man, has the power to kill someone with a brick. War makes us all beasts. I hope you screamed until your voice ran out as they chewed your bloody hands off.”

The man laughed, abrupt and sharp. “Know these wounds, you Cretan?”

“I’ve seen people cut off their legs for less,” Tom’s lip curled cruel, “and remain more dignified than your sorry arse.”

Gellert spat something in German. Albus, much to Harry’s surprise, stood swiftly and with one hand grabbed the scruff of Grindelwald’s shirt. The German laughed, amused in the sudden aggression and tension in the small room.

“So this is what you’ve ignored me for, Albus?” Gellert mocked as he was manhandled into the high back chair, “this boy-beast that shouldn’t have survived.”

“You have no value to talk,” Albus said sharply. “You are not to touch this-.”

“No, let him speak.” Tom interrupted calmly. “I want to hear this bloody cunt _beg._ ”

The air chilled, Albus let Grindelwald’s scruff go sharply.

“You’ve got a tongue on you,” Grindelwald mocked, “lapping up your bitch mother’s potions and Crina Dimitriu’s boots?”

Tom tensed so suddenly, Harry was worried he had somehow been cursed. It was for only a moment, but Harry couldn’t breathe through the crippling terror that pierced his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe-

“What does he mean?” Tom said flatly. “Explain.”

A pause, then Crina exhaled through her nose slowly.

“Do you know why we don’t give potions to children, Tom?” Crina asked him.

The room was cold, the small space heater with its orange glow did little to permeate the air. Frost decorated the thick stone, Tom’s air clouded into mist with each breath. He understood now why Crina wore such an outrageous coat. What looked gaudy in one environment proved advantageous in another. Thick, warm, it obscured her movements and blanketed her body with dense fabric. No knife or tooth or claw would touch her skin under it.

“Overdosing.” Tom said flatly. Ignoring the slight flutter along his fingertips at the word. The word was just a word. It’s meaning a definition as unremarkable as the next. “Poisoning. Irreversible organ damage, just as with anything else.”

Crina’s face remained stony. Illuminated, but the shadows of her crows feet looked darker. The oil lamp looked archaic and familiar, fitting for someone who drank vintage wine and lived in a castle at her leisure.

“Do you know, Harry?”

Harry looked a bit startled to be addressed so suddenly. Perhaps the boy assumed that Crina would ask Dumbledore, who had taken position behind the thick oak chair where Grindelwald sprawl relaxed. He was no threat to them, Crina assured, but Tom had been hurt before by harmless things.

“Uh, when I had the bones in my arm vanished I had to take Skele-gro.” Harry said, “Madam Pomfrey was careful because she said if I had too much I would grow too much bone?”

Crina shifted some objects on her desk, moving papers and fountain pens to the side. The small shelf with leather spine journals, each unremarkable from one another, displayed her focus. She selected one, seemingly at random.

“Would you care to educate your students, Albus?” Crina asked flatly.

Albus didn’t shift from his silent vigil, but he did begin to speak in a low voice fitting for Nurmengard.

“In the muggle world, many medications are not given to expecting mothers.” Dumbledore said, “it is understood that medicines and drink are passed from mother to young, prior to birth. A medicine that may...aid, with troubled sleep, could prevent the child from growing properly. Children could be born without limbs, with hearts too small, fresh from the womb and helpless to live.”

Harry swallowed thickly, vaguely disturbed by the idea. Tom however, did not look too troubled.

“I know them.” Tom said flatly. “The ambled, the paper boned. The fags, the slow, the lunatics and those born mad.”

Crina blinked, her only expression to the modern slurs and insensitive comments. Back then, they were appropriate and accepted. It was not Tom’s fault.

Tom instead let his eyes flicker to the side, to the chair where Grindelwald day with his eyes closed and body relaxed. Tom’s voice didn’t shift, didn’t alter in cadence or tone. “You rounded them up and cut them open then slit their necks like cattle.”

The room chilled ever so slightly more. Tom turned his neck slowly, robotically with sharp bright eyes and a thin smile like a barber's razor. “They were going to send me south. To Italy and wipe their hands clean of their demon child.”

Grindelwald smiled with no fondness.

Crina tapped her leather book with her nail softly, staring at Albus with a hawk eye look. “Albus, you’re not done talking.”

Albus’ lines and wrinkled were thick, carved into his face like a saddle maker carved leather. He spoke, through sunspots and the moles along his chin. “Magical potions are not given to children, because they operate similar to...muggle recreational drugs. They cause a codependency, an addiction to something which ultimately leads to unstable control of magic.”

“The field is not studied extensively due to the high level legalities of providing expectant mothers with magical potions.”

Grindelwald chuckled, a low hoarse sound that had Albus’s knuckles creaking in strain.

“Is it now?” Grindelwald asked rhetorically, not bothering to open his eyes.

Harry adjusted his seat although it failed to provide more distance. “Is that a...recurring problem now-.”

“No,” Crina said, “it was. Uncontrollable magic, and repression techniques are one of the highly speculated tools for the artificial construction of obscuri. A weapon Gellert here was quite fond of, notably the incident in America.”

Grindelwald’s teeth were yellow, like a  vicious badger or a wolverine. His smile looked more like a snarl.

“Obscuri, Harry, are cruelty to nature. They should never be brought to exist.” Albus said, and for once, Gellert did not laugh.

“He- are there more than? Are- is he weaponizing people?” Harry babbled, not understanding but recognizing the tension in the room.

“No,” Crina said. “The methodology of the artificial Obscuri involved dosing mothers with powerful potions to force their child to accommodate high magical strain. The theory is, that high magical strain during development forces the magical core and capacity to increase in size and reserves to metabolize the mother’s toxins in the womb. When born, the uncontrollable reserves result in...catastrophic degrees of uncontrollable magic.”

“That’s sick.” Harry blurted. He jerked upright, spine taught and straight. “You- you can't do that! That’s experimenting on children and, did the mothers even know! What is happening? And-.”

“Harry.” Dumbledore said, and Harry quieted.

“The majority of cases are individuals born to wizarding families.” Crina said, voice a tad quieter as if preparing for something foul. “They were aware of the risks, or perhaps they didn’t care. Instances where producing a child was not...the focus at hand. An accident, a symptom of whatever goal they had in mind.”

Tom stood suddenly. There was no hesitation in his movements, he had been sitting and the next split second he was standing and walking towards the door to the hallways with sole intentions of leaving.

“Tom-.” Harry started, swiveling his neck in bafflement and concern. “What...”

Grindelwald began to laugh, a sharp hacking noise that faded off wetly towards the end. Repeatedly, it sounded like the laugh of the elderly and once more Grindelwald’s age became apparent.

“Oh you boy,” Grindelwald laughed, “unable to face what you were so desperate to know?”

Harry looked helplessly lost, but he knew enough that everything Grindelwald said was shite.

“Shut up,” Harry spat, standing abruptly with his hands curled into tight fists. “You’re a monster! You don’t even know him so shut up!”

Grindelwald’s crooked tooth smile and arching wire eyebrows spoke differently. He threw his head back, silvery white beard reflecting the lantern light. His teeth, yellow and retracted gums, glistened at the right angle.

“I don’t know him?” Grindelwald sneered, not moving his slumped body on his stool. His arms flexed, shoulders rolling to suggest he’d gesture dramatically if he could. “I know all about his kind!”

“Gellert.” Dumbledore said unkindly, “watch the words in which you speak. You will do well to remember your place here.”

“My place here?” Gellert asked astonished, voice elevating to a shout. “My place here! Where you amble in after how many decades of silence? After you bring me this- this Harry Potter, and this bastard child who be better off dead!”

Tom didn’t turn, but his neck tensed and his shoulders tightened. Crina frowned and turned her head ever so slightly to the side. “Gellert. I have said nothing of his bloodline-.”

“You have said enough!” He shouted. “You have spent far too long with this useless brat! Going on and on about this pet of yours! You have taken my work and twisted it into a mockery of everything I stand for! Hours and days, huddled over that pathetic book of yours, looking to cure my greatest work- as if it is some sort of disease!”

“Gellert!” Crina shouted, her hands slapping on her thick desk as she stood abruptly. Her coat swished, fur collar larger and making her shoulders an imposing obstacle. “You will be silent!”

“I have been silent for years! As you have wasted time tending to this- this  potion created monster of my invention! This bastard- I dare guess you don’t even know of your blood! How your mother loved you so little-.”

“I am sick,” Tom Riddle said slowly, facing away from the group, “of you talking.”

He turned slowly. His face had lost all the blood in it, leaving him a ghostly shade that looked ill. His lips were white, pressed tight against his mouth as his nostrils flared widely. Everything about him was controlled and calm, his pupils dilated so wide in the dark that there was no blue left to see.

“You hate it, that you were born from nothing, and all your life, all your fears are true. You were born pathetic, a tool, and you know it too.” Grindelwald laughed, wet and wild and free, “if I had found you before, I would have used you like the mistake you are-.”

Harry shivered, the hair on his arms standing up. It was almost like a Dementor came over him, chilling the air and leaving him breathless. He heard no screaming beyond the muffled shouts of the prison itself. He felt no happiness.

“Gellert!” Dumbledore raised his voice, loud and echoing slightly off the rock. Crina stood tall, fingertips white from how hard she pressed against the table.

They had no wands, no true threat. Only words but oh how cruel and painful words could be. The lupescu made sure they were safe, but the lupescu could not speak human tongue and had no weapon against it.

“You’re wrong,” Tom spoke flatly. No emotion in his face. His hands, Harry noticed, were trembling slightly.

“Crina.” Dumbledore pleaded, his voice tired and with a low twist that Harry could feel pluck the pulse of his throat and thrum it harder. It felt like Fawkes crying, sad and wounded and desperate to help. “Crina don’t...”

Crina exhaled through her nose slowly, her lips relaxing and returning colour. She lifted one hand, silencing Dumbledore and Harry and poured her attention on Tom.

“Tell me why you’re letting him wound you.” Crina said.

Tom didn’t look at her, the bottomless black of his eyes were focused on one wide grinning elderly man. “I’m not.”

“You are.” Crina corrected him unkindly. “He’s a crippled man with no more power than a squib.”

Gellert laughed, he kept laughing and Tom’s lip curled into an expression Harry couldn’t recognize.

“Stop laughing at me.” Tom said, small but not weak.

Grindelwald, lifted the grizzled stumps of his arms, cut off and fed to the lupescu of his own making, and grinned. “What have you to fear? Would you kill men like me? Would you be my judge and executioner and say that we are different?”

“I’m not weak!” Tom hissed, voicing rising slightly shrill.

“You are the bastard child to a bitch! A woman who condemned her unwanted child because you know as well as I- you are not wanted! You are not loved!”

“I’m not a cripple living at the mercy of pigs feeding him slop!” Tom hissed, voice shifting an octave ever so high and Harry flinched against his will. It felt as if the air had left the room, a static and low scent of ozone like the oil lamp had turned to lightning. Dumbledore reached with one wrinkled hand to pull Harry back, flush against the wall where he may be protected from fists. Harry’s jaw moved wordlessly, unable to make a sound. His eyes burned like acid.

“Tom, he speaks as a chained barking dog.” Crina soothed quietly, her eyes sharp although one hand was still raised. Perhaps a signal in the making, for aid or help or for the lupescu to finish eating what they once started.

“He speaks about things he knows nothing about.” Tom bristled, the whites of his eyes visible.

“Oh, believe me boy.” Grindelwald said, “I know everything about you. I made you- I know your orphaned life, your stolen name that stands for something you don’t know. Your bastard father, your drugged bitch mother. Did she hold you before she abandoned you? Or did she throw you aside as I’ve thrown aside the first failed child the same as I’ve thrown away the _hundredth_! You are nothing special! You all claim good and evil in this world, but all that exists is rot that attempts to choke us.”

The air crackled, or it felt similar to. The softest hiss of fingertips on stone, the caress of nails on bedrock. Crina breathed exhilarated. Harry felt his heart in this throat, twisting against his neck so violently he breathed slowly to hold back the vomit. It hurt so much, so deeply and unfiltered.

Dumbledore’s hand on his shoulder clenched tight, hard enough to squeeze the hollow of his clavicle and his scapula. Harry wasn’t sure he’d be able to ever speak again. His head throbbed in pain and loud and his skin prickled akin to a horrible rash sunburn.

“You preach a lot,” Tom said, slowly controlling his words to such a degree the high nasal shriek from before was a distant memory. Still, he sounded strained, over enunciating in efforts to restrain himself. “And I have seen _many_ holy men.”

Tom closed his eyes, breathing so tightly his entire chest moved with his efforts to inhale and exhale slowly. Crina relaxed ever so slightly, her lifted hand faltering. Dumbledore’s grip too, waned. Harry’s skin burned raw and prickling, and he felt helpless to quell the low whimper through his mouth. It broke like a bubble, a desperate keen that felt fitting for the air. Cracking and exposed and hurting.

“ _Harry_!” Dumbledore urged, low and rushed. Hesitating only a moment, for as long as it took for Tom to open his eyes. His black pupils has swallowed the blue, his teeth were as white as bone.

“Your war,” Tom said, low and patient and condescending like Ginny’s nightmares and Harry’s basilisk encounter. “Taught me many things. I have been preached on good and evil, but a dead man once told me-.”

Tom spoke French. Crina blinked twice, comprehending a fraction faster than Dumbledore did. Her lips moved between words, translating first to Romanian then finally to English. Silently she translated, translating as fast as Dumbledore could Inhale sharply and clamp once more on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry felt hollow and raw and the painful urge to cry. He hadn’t ever felt  like this before, this exposed and splintered on the inside. It hurt it hurt it _hurt._

“Are you calling me weak?” Grindelwald asked. Fluent in French, but he chose to resume the conversation in his accented English. Harry was thankful, given that he appeared to be the only one unable to comprehend French.

“Me? Who has conquered, and built a legacy that leaves you shitting your trousers. You, who chokes on words and-.”

“I am _sick_ of your _tongue_ .” Tom said flatly. Harry felt the piercing throb he couldn’t describe peak- and suddenly he felt the tears uncontrollably cascade down his face, although he didn’t know why. He didn’t understand, he couldn’t breathe and he felt so _bloody hurt and-_

“Choke.” Tom said.

Grindelwald grinned and gurgled, and laughed wetly then wetter. Blood vomited down his front as he threw his neck back, frothing blood as black as tar in the room.

Crina’s eyes widened in alarm and she swished her hand low. The movement triggered a wardstone of some origin, ancient and old that pulsated low blue and secured around archways and gouges in the floor. Filling the absences, a security lock built long before their birth into the castle itself.

Grindelwald choked; gurgling and writhing as he slumped off his chair. Dropping to the ground, writhing like a worm as blood surged from his mouth. He kept laughing through it, rolling in a puddle of his own saliva and mucus.

“Harry, _Harry_ are you hurt?” Dumbledore desperately patted over him, turning his chin at the sight of Harry’s uncontrollable crying. “Are you alright?”

“He’s so sad, professor.” Harry burped through the hiccuping wheezes of the foreign emotions. “He’s so _sad_.”

Tom’s shoes were turning red, coated in the thick slime of both blood and phlegm and spit. His face was blank, flat and pale but between thumb and forefinger he held a slippery piece of meat.

“Call your dogs.” Tom said flatly, brokenly. Crina gazed at him adoringly, revolted in his abilities.

Tom lifted his hand and said, “I have dinner for them.”

He was so sad and hurting, Harry couldn’t find the anger or disgust when he recognized that Tom was holding Grindelwald’s tongue.

* * *

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	12. Repetita iuvant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Tom has some emotions.  
> He doesn't like them.

The last week of October did not come gently. The courses began to pile more cruel work- amounts that outshone anything they had ever seen before. Professor Umbridge seemed to take keen delight in awarding detentions, handing them out by the handful. Already Harry had heard the younger years bemoaning about ruined Halloween plans. Harry, through some unknown chance of pure luck, had avoided both a detention or extra assignments on the later years.

Ron and Hermione were not quite so lucky- Hermione finding herself bogged down with prefect duties and Ron managing a late night walk with Filch after managing to fall asleep during Defense class. It was amusing at least to watch Umbridge match her skin to the ugly red lipstick she wore- but Ron complained enough as it was.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright on your own, Harry?” Hermione asked, chewing her lower lip. It was a bad habit of hers, it would scar if she kept up at it by the time they graduated.

“It’s fine, honest.” Harry said, “I’m not much company on Halloween.”

It was true. Harry would love to spend a good Halloween alone for once. Maybe pay a visit to the Hippogriffs if he was really wanting a scare. Normally he’d find the idea of visiting Hagrid’s hut appealing, but being down there felt even more lonesome.

There were large black skeletal horses walking through the hall, guided by Professor Grubbly-Plank to pull massive pumpkins. Not as large as the previous years since Hagrid’s absence had been long and itching on Harry’s mind; the pumpkins would be carved and decorate the hallways with enchanted candlesticks. Harry knew that the Twins were planning some sort of prank- likely the giant carved faces would vomit up candy floss or other sweets. Harry couldn’t find it in himself to be excited.

He felt more like a ghost than the other ghosts were. They were cheerful, planning festivities and parties as Harry drifted aimlessly from one stone tower to the next. There was a minor chill in the air, enough that the Grindylows were retreating towards deeper water. 

The Hufflepuff that Tom had antagonized before similarly drifted about. A skittish little student that fumbled over his words nearly as badly as Neville.

“Hey, wait!” Harry said, racing after the yellow striped tie. The student squeaked, looking alarmed and a bit faint as Harry towered over him, “I uh, I was wondering what you said to Tom to make him so mad at you?”

The Hufflepuff looked at him with wide eyes, a faint scandalized flush to his cheeks. “I-  _ Tom?  _ The…”

“The Slytherin?” Harry tried, “you know, when you uh…” Harry paused, giving a single awkward wave towards his own lower half. The scandalized flush turned beet red, the student’s eyes glazing in his shame.

“I mean, I’ve just uh, never seen him that mad!” Harry tried to rectify, “I was just curious.”

The Hufflepuff looked more nervous as he nodded, keeping his eyes on where Harry’s hands were as if he was about to be grabbed again. “He- I didn’t know who he was! I- My mum always said back home to help others and the Lord-.”

“Lord?” Harry interrupted, “I- sorry, you’re muggleborn?”

“Yes?’ The student squeaked, looking more worried that he had incurred Harry’s wrath, “I- I’m Christian? He- he was looking mad and- and mum always said to help others so I tried to comfort him saying the Lord works his plan even if we don’t know it and-.”

The Hufflepuff continued, babbling and stuttering as Harry felt more overwhelmed and confused. Wasn’t Tom religious as well? Wouldn’t he be  _ comforted  _ by another student sharing his same belief? Then again, this student seemed incredibly flighty.

“He was very upset, sir!” The Hufflepuff babbled worriedly, “I- I didn’t mean to offend him so! I just said that the Lord has plans for us all, and we aren’t intended to know what fate he has made for us and-.”

“No no, uh, it’s fine.” Harry said, taking a step back to try and clear his head. “Uh, sorry for bothering you. Happy Halloween.”

The Hufflepuff ran off, likely worried he’d somehow trigger Harry’s rage as well.

Tom was furious and bullied a student over  _ religion.  _ Had the boy somehow messed up a...verse? Was that even the right term? Was it some sort of religious conflict- and Tom worshiped an opposing side? Harry didn’t know enough to really understand the values or belief- if only it was easy like the Goblin Wars.

* * *

 

Tom avoided Harry like the plague. Either Harry had completely botched his only attempt to get information, or Tom was going out of his way to avoid him in the morning.

Harry had completely redone his sleep schedule, trying to track down and find the other boy. Instead of sleeping in, lulled by Seamus’ loud snoring, Harry was slipping on his shoes and occupying the Great Hall. Tom Riddle hadn’t arrived  _ once  _ since that fateful morning.

“You look horrible.” Hermione said with no tact, “honestly, how early have you been getting up? You went to bed last night before I did!”

“Early.” Harry grunted sourly, spearing his fifth roll with his butter knife. At this point, he wasn’t even hungry. Just tired and irritated and likely going to get a detention from Snape in this state. “Riddle hasn’t shown up  _ once.” _

Hermione looked more surprised by Harry’s aggressive bread-spearing. “Have you considered asking the House Elves? I’m sure that they would be delighted to help you, they deserve respect you know. Maybe showing them some respect would do wonders for my movement and-.”

“The house elves.” Harry said in awe, “Hermione you’re a genius.”

Hermione looked a bit miffed as Harry gathered his things to run off. Tomorrow, Tom would  _ not  _ escape him.

* * *

 

The pear on the wall giggled and slid open, bright and early at Six in the morning. The house elves were all working in a fuss, throwing frying pans with half cooked eggs around the kitchen. Rolls were sorted in and out of an oven; a furnace that baked a dozen different pastries at once. Fruit flew down an assembly line with a dozen little hands holding massive cleavers, chopping apples and pears and bananas into tiny wedges.

Better than that, Dobby was happily babbling away as he took Harry’s hand and guided him through the waist high tables. Elves were on stools, kicking and shoving rolling carts around that zipped from one station to the next. Everything was chaotic and messy, although the furthest side of the kitchen had a set of tiny tables and what looked like a massive black wrought iron cauldron.

Dobby kept chattering, like it was normal that Tom Riddle was bent over miserably vomiting uncontrollably into the cauldron. Thick wet noises that made Harry’s own insides gurgle angrily. The table in front of him was stacked with empty plates, a few crumbs and bits of apple peel curling on the edges. At least nine plates, each empty, and the thick stench of bile.

“You’re a right mess.” Harry said, unsure of anything else to say.

Tom paused, entire body tensing before he moaned pitifully into the cauldron. His body heaved once more, surprisingly fluid and rehearsed before he straightened and wiped his mouth on a cloth offered. 

“You,” Tom rasped tiredly, “need to  _ stop following me.” _

Any other day Harry may have considered it. Instead, he eyed the number of plates and drew from his own memory how high the elves tended to stack things. The pancakes that towered higher than his forearm, the mountain of fruit and thick syrup drizzled over sweet dates.

Nine plates.Tom’s body looked strained and exhausted and it was Six in the morning.

“How long have you been here?” Harry asked, sliding onto the stool another elf brought hastily for him. Tom’s eyes were bloodshot around the edges, red rimmed. One spot near his left eye corner looked bloody- a broken small vessel. Tom didn’t answer him.

Hours it must have been, even if he wouldn’t answer. 

“Dobby?” Harry asked, not breaking eye contact. The elf appeared happily, not concerned by Tom’s state. “Hello Mr. Harry Potter Sir!”

“Hey Dobby, do you know how long Tom’s been here?”

Tom’s nostrils flared and his hands twitched, cramping and shaking from where they rested on the table. Knuckles knobby and bony- everything about him bony. He didn’t say anything.

“Oh! Mr. Tom comes sometimes all night!” Dobby squealed happily, “will you be wanting more’s nows Mr. Tom? More loaves have been baked and-.”

“ _ Loaves?”  _ Harry balked in alarm, “Dobby, what time did he  _ get here?” _

“Uh, three hours ago?” Dobby guessed, looking a bit perplexed and startled at how he couldn’t say the exact time. “Mr. Tom has a big appetite and-.”

“Leave us.” Tom croaked, voice raw and sour. He looked weak and flushed and more resigned and tired than he had any right to. If, what Dobby said was true, Tom had been eating since three in the morning, scarfing down  _ entire loaves of bread  _ and who knows what else.

“Mate…” Harry trailed off unsure, “...you have a problem.”

Tom laughed, verging slightly on hysteria as he used both hands to press firmly into his eye sockets. “I have  _ many problems,  _ Potter. Take your pick, or are you going to run to the Headmaster like a dog and call my  _ shrink?” _

Harry looked at his fingers. Two new loaves of bread arrived, each powdered lightly with flour and looking positively delicious. He tore off one small bit, nibbling on it.

Tom eyed it with something ravenous. The cauldron at his side was empty, likely a vanishing bottom considering a human stomach could only be so big.

“Go at it.” Harry said, and Tom lunged in for the kill. It was strangely captivating to see how Tom ignored utensils, preferring to tear into its thick crust and spongy interior with nails and bared knuckles. His teeth chewed slightly, but he instead seemed to swallow entire chunks solid. Forcing it painfully down his throat before he lunged on the next, a desperate attempt to fit the most amount of carbs inside a stomach before someone forced it away. It reminded Harry of a starving wolf, so wild and animalistic it didn’t even surprise him as Tom paused a half minute before keeling over with raw painful gagging. Entire chunks of bread, faintly wet from stomach acid and mucus slid out like regurgitated rats. 

It looked bad. Some sort of...half forgotten wish for comfort twisted at Harry’s head. The things he had seen in Dudley’s movies, written in Aunt Petunia’s romantic novels. Harry reached over, awkwardly rubbing along the pointed knobs of Tom’s back, just around his shoulder blades. He could feel the boy’s entire body trembling, contracting with the force of his heaving. It felt painful, and on a low animal level Tom whined.

The session finished and Tom clutched the edges of the cauldron, gasping. His entire body was twiglike and thin- Harry wondered how often this happened if Tom was still so frail.

“I get it,” Harry offered in the silence, breaking through the chaotic noise of the kitchen. “When I first came here, I did the same thing too. So uh, I imagine not much food in a war?”

Tom chuckled, dark and low. He spat out globules of mucus, blowing snot from his dripping nose. “And what would  _ you  _ know about starvation?”

Harry felt that knob of guilt in his throat. He didn’t talk about it- not to Ron or Hemrione although he knew she suspected. It felt almost like a betrayal to talk about it now, not when it mattered anymore.

But Tom was vomiting his heart out alone for hours. Keeping some sort of...penance in the dark, alone.

“I live with my...aunt and uncle.” Harry started. The words came to him easier than he’d think. “They didn’t feed me much. I ate with my eyes for a week when I first came to Hogwarts, made myself sick all the time. Stole so much bread, I reckon the elves thought I was mad.”

Tom managed a wet laugh, finally hauling his head up from the cauldron. The smell vanished with the activated charm- now they were at ten plates.

“What’s your favourite candy?” Harry asked.

Tom eyed him from the corner of his clear eye. The other red from leaking blood. “Acid pops.”

“ _ Really?”  _ Harry said, “those are bloody rancid!”

Tom managed a smile, sharp and tired. “The only candy Dumbledore doesn’t touch with a ten foot pole.”

Out of spite more likely, but Harry couldn’t help but feel amused by Tom’s dedication. The elves were hurrying along in true effort now, shouting orders out or complaints as someone failed to get the jelly to a boil in time. Harry didn’t even know that jelly boiled, or how they made it.

“Why are you talking to me now?” Harry asked. “I thought you were tight lipped and hated me.”

“I’ve learned that you are persistent like scabies.” Tom mused, “I’ve given up trying to avoid you and your burrowing tendencies.”

Another loaf of bread appeared in front of them. Tom had regained colour in their little talk, something calmer in his expression and eyes. He didn’t take the bread, he ignored it in its entirety. Harry knew the boy had nothing in his stomach, he’d bring him something smaller in little portions to avoid this sort of... _ state _ later.

“That’s rude, calling people insects.” Harry pointed out. “Hermione would smack you for that.”

“And where  _ is  _ that girl? I thought she was glued to your side.”

Harry rolled his shoulder. “I wanted to be alone.”

Tom’s eyebrows rose, one hand beckoning. Perhaps going to the kitchen wasn’t exactly what alone meant.

“Not like that.” Harry tried to correct himself. “You...you aren’t like my friends.”

“ _ Now  _ look who’s rude.”

“Not that you twat! You just...I think we could have been friends.”

Tom looked increasingly exasperated and slightly offended. “You? Me? Excuse me, I thought I was a  _ Dark Lord-.” _

“Well you aren’t, so enough of that!” Harry snapped out before he could help himself. “I bloody hate Halloween, okay? Because what Voldemort did to my parents- and I’m pretty goddamn sure that  _ you  _ didn’t murder them, so you’re  _ not  _ my problem.”

Tom looked at Harry with wide eyes. Harry felt his heart began to slow. Perhaps a bit late, he felt the guilt for his outburst. “Sorry. That was mean.”

“Mean.” Tom repeated in awe, “you are an absolute moron, Harry Potter.”

“I get that a lot.”

“I wonder why.” Tom huffed, rolling his eyes slightly. With one hand, he reached out and pushed the plate with the new loaf of bread aside. He stood, chair scratching slightly along the floor. He paused, hesitating a fraction of a moment before glimpsing over his shoulder to lock eyes with Harry.

“I won’t stop you from following me.” Tom comforted him. The closest he would ever get to an invitation.

Harry took it.

* * *

 

Classes were delayed and pushed around, given that it was Halloween. The forest was quiet and ominous, feeling as if the trunks somehow broke the barrier of time itself. Knowing how the bark felt as they quite literally  _ did  _ break time (thanks to a Time Turner) to run around in the forest didn’t break the illusion.

“I’ve been in here a lot,” Harry confessed, running his hands over the soft cold lichen growing on a large boulder. “Every year.”

Tom kept walking, slipping down and around the trail that the Magical Care classes followed. The main patch was marked with pavers, round stones carved from flagstone.

“I’m surprised you were. The forest is dangerous.” Tom said, running his own hands along the tree bark. Some trees stood tall over them, like soldiers or sentinels watching their approach. Harry wondered if that was why Tom felt so at ease, under the eyes of tall towers and hundreds of troops standing guard.

“Well, I snuck in most of the time.” Harry said. “It wasn’t bad. Well, my first year here we had to find a unicorn and met y- a  _ wraith.  _ Then there was the acromantula that tried to eat me and Ron. Then there was also L- the  _ werewolf,  _ and the hundreds of dementors and-.”

“Good thing I’m here then.” Tom cut him off pointedly. He ignored him from then on. 

They walked through the forest, so dark in spots from the tall upper growth that they drew their wands to light their path. The forest floor was teeming with life, small spiders, chipmunks, and grass snakes mumbling on to a silent audience. It was peaceful in its freedom, even Tom looked more at ease.

They kept walking towards where Hagrid had once shown Harry Hippogriffs. Instead, the tall skeletal horses watched with eerily milky eyes. Flapping skeletal wings as they tilted their dragon-esq heads and approached curiously.

“Thestrals.” Tom explained in a single blunt word. “They don’t age. The same ones I know, you haven’t had any deaths in the castle then.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked, partially shocked and partially alarmed. A horse- thestral, approached him curiously. The high arched ridges of its brow bone felt like stretched leather on a drum. Slightly slippery, but soft and warm under his fingertips.

“The leader here, her name is Mylacedes.” Tom said as if that would explain anything at all. “I’d say she’s the vocal one but, well, she doesn’t ever say anything useful.”

_ That’s an odd expression,  _ Harry thought, but he couldn’t ask it since one thestral was nibbling along the edge of his cloak.

They were beautiful creatures in a sad way. Scary, terrifying, but beautiful. Something like a lone swan, or like a flower blooming when frost was imminent. Tom didn’t show many animals fondness, and he didn’t show any affection towards this animal. Tom had dragged Harry out for some cause Harry didn’t know. Perhaps he was as lonely as Harry was.

“I…” Tom trailed off pointedly, inhaling from his nose as his entire body tensed. “You killed the basilisk.”

There was no question in his statement. There was disbelief, curiosity, then a dawning realization of horror. Harry hadn’t heard a grass snake talk, but it was certainly possible that it did. The Acromantula knew of the basilisk, and they populated the forest heavily now.

_ Shite. _

“A  _ basilisk.”  _ Tom hissed out, “you killed  _ Salazar’s monster?” _

“It was trying to kill me!” Harry defended quickly, “I mean, I think that’s justified.”

Tom stared at him. The thestrals lingers, making odd echoing noises as they foraged for insects or meat along the floor. One thestral, an older weathered one made an impressive rattling  _ m-boaaa,  _ before it trotted off. Tom’s face twitched ever so slightly.

“Her name was Adalonda and you killed her.” Tom deadpanned. “I am…”

“Mad?” Harry asked, “I tend to piss off a lot of people.”

“I am  _ beyond words.”  _ Tom hissed furiously. “I...I’m going back to the castle.”

“What?” Harry balked, “but we just  _ got  _ here-.”

“That was  _ before  _ I knew that you  _ killed the bloody basilisk!” _

Harry had to run to keep up, something about the situation hilarious in a disbelieving way. Tom Riddle, Dark Lord in training, could power pout his way all the way  _ back to the castle. _

Students outside watched them curiously; the classmates that knew Harry just rolled their eyes and ignored it. Harry was long since due any sort of drama, and the new special arrangement student was a proper enigma for the majority of them.

Harry was nearly out of breath by the time he made it to the top of the hill. Tom was similarly panting, but he turned those pants into huffs of anger as he continued to storm to the castle.

“Hey Harry!” someone waved- Fred Weasley. He was sitting near the outer courtyard, George perched in one of the archways that led into the castle itself. Easily able to spectate Tom’s Dark Temper-Tantrum, as well as Harry’s exasperation.

“Try not to end up in the hospital wing this year!” George shouted encouragingly, “let’s make a new record!”

“But if you  _ do  _ end up there-.”

“-We’ll send you some sweets from the feast!”

Both twins laughed as Harry waved back, already knowing that his luck was pushing it. “I’ll try my best!”

The twins cheered him on, waving happily as Harry hurried after Tom.

* * *

Tom walked confidently until he stood in the main stairwell. Dozens of wooden staircases shifted around them, adjusting positions and multiple floors as owls soared from landing to landing. Somewhere below them, a loud game of exploding snap echoed off portraits- who shouted in annoyance over the flash of light and smoke.

Harry skittered to a stop, carpet bunching under his shoes. Tom was standing on the main landing, jaw tense and temple throbbing visibly as he glared over the railing towards the dungeon steps where potions’ classes were held.

“Take me to her.” Tom said abruptly. “The basilisk. Take me to her.”

Harry looked at Tom in surprise, “the basilisk? You know she’s dead right?”

“Of  _ course  _ I know she’s dead!” Tom hissed viciously, “I’ve been trying to meet her for  _ years  _ and you went and  _ slaughtered her like an animal.” _

Harry took a half step back, mindful of the fact Tom, for some unknown reason, hadn’t viewed the large lethal snake as an animal. “I mean, it’s been some years. It’s probably kinda rank…”

Tom’s glare sharpened, Harry stopped talking.

“I want to see her.” Tom said sharply. “Your schedule is clear, you have time. Take me to her.”

Harry shifted where he stood, “you already seem to know it-  _ her.  _ Don’t you uh,  _ know  _ where i-  _ she  _ is?”

Tom’s jaw visibly twitched, side to side as he ground his molars against one another. His shoulders lifted ever so slightly, taught all the way up his neck.

“...I’ve  _ seen  _ things...about Adalonda.” Tom twitched ever so slightly, “she was heavily documented in various journals.”

Harry stared. “Written in what, Latin?”

“ _ Yes.” _

“Oh.” Harry said, “ah, okay then.”

Happy Halloween everyone.

* * *

 

Harry remembered the Chamber vividly. In his dreams, in his memories. Now, in his waking life. The tunnel was slimy and rank with that humid aroma of mildew and algae. The pipes were slimy, dingy and dirty. Harry took one glance at Tom’s robes- second hand but well cared for. Harry imagined that Tom was used to trudging around in dirt.

Tom kept his face bland and inexpressive, even as Harry slid down and vanished from sight. The bottom of the pipe shifted to a gentle horizontal slope, his speed bottoming until he was wobbly standing and trying to fix the odd chafe along his thighs.

Tom appeared moments later, his hair standing up strangely; the wind and slime made a fairly adequate hair gel. One small charm later, they were uncomfortably clean from magical means. Tom pointed forward with his wand, glowing a steady blue light.

“It’s this way.” Harry pointed, stepping over the hazardous chunk where the wall collapsed. Tom eyed it curiously and warily, tracing stress cracking with one hand as if he recognized the signs. Harry was about to ask where the boy recognized marks of rock exploding before he felt dumb and insensitive for even thinking about it.

They reached the next gate, a thick seal of multiple snakes interwoven into a locking mechanism. Tom observed it, tracing each of the indistinct serpents head before he came to some sort of solution. One he did not like, given by his sudden sharp inhale and quick steps backward.

Tom stared at Harry quietly, face impossible to read. Very hastily, he whispered  _ “nox”  _ and sent the two of them into pure darkness.

Harry cursed, fumbling to draw his wand and light up the room. By the time he did so, Tom had traveled the scarce six feet between them to stand motionless and expressionlessly before Harry. So close, Harry could feel the soft humid puffs of Tom’s breath on his face. Desperate, searching for something Harry didn’t know.

“Who are you?” Tom whispered with something Harry almost interpreted as  _ longing,  _ “...Open the door, Harry.”

Harry stared at Tom; his eyes were dark and flickering from the magical light. Harry didn’t even need to look at the door, to imagine the slit pupils and the cold scales against his skin.

_ “Open,”  _ Harry hissed, the words sounding distorted and echoing against the stone. Tom inhaled sharply, and the door opened with a rough gear grinding.

Tom stood, so close the heat of him was tangible. He stared a moment longer, tracing Harry’s face and cheekbones before falling upon the mostly obscured scar on his brow. Harry didn’t know what to say, so  he said nothing.

Tom took a step back, then another. His shoes scuffed over the stone, splashing through water puddles.

Tom didn’t look surprised. He looked…

He looked like he expected it. That something deep in his gut told him they were connected.

The Basilisk didn’t stink, didn’t rot. Its body was fresh and sour, although it was distended with bulging molded eyes. Bright white mold covered its exposed soft tissue like slime, filtering over its nostrils and open gaping mouth. Its fangs were distended, loose and falling free and Tom dropped to his knees before the basilisk’s head. Tom’s entire body could likely curl inside its maw, its hand could fit within the clear hole piercing through the serpent’s skull through the top of its head.

Tom traced it, fingertips gentle around the edges of the wound, tapping on the center of the serpents forehead nearly lovingly. “Reptiles have something called a third eye. Muggles believed it to be a...an organ to determine day and night. In magic it...they found, that serpents and dragons used their third eye to tell weather, to taste seasons and feel threats beyond their sights.”

Harry felt, for the first time in his life- guilty.

Tom traced the basilisk’s head, the wound where, Harry noticed, a scale seemed larger and flatter and bisected cleanly with where the Sword of Gryffindor stabbed through.

“Dragons use it to sense magic,” Tom smiled sardonically, “basilisks, the kings and queens of all serpents were...well, I guess I’ll never know.”

“Tom, I-.”

“Adalonda, was a gift from Salazar Slytherin. His proudest creature after the unexpected death of his child. He kept her here, in the Chamber, as a gift for his descendants, to guide them in dark times.”

Harry breathed, and felt so so horribly guilty.

“Perhaps that was what the basilisk third eye was for,” Tom mused quietly, tracing the small scale ridges of the basilisk’s crown. “The third eye, to sense the future, or to guide us along our path. And you killed her like a  _ bloody pig.” _

“I’m sorry.” Harry said, “she was trying to kill me.”

“Maybe that was what was supposed to happen then.” Tom said simply. “I wouldn’t know, would I? What she would have said, what Salazar Slytherin would have said to me, would you?”

Harry’s mouth went dry, “Tom don’t-.”

“Speak to me, Salazar Slytherin.” Tom mused, lowering his head to press his forehead against the dead skull of the Basilisk. He closed his eyes mournfully, resting there silent.

“Tom, I think it’s time to go.” Harry said, unwilling to step closer to the massive creature. Nothing good had ever happened here, only pain and screaming and Ginny’s prone body on the floor.

“What happened here?” Tom asked him, slowly righting himself to stare at Harry with a look far too bright and near mad. Something far too aware, burning behind his eyes in the filth and gloom of a molding rotting corpse. “This is where that girl of yours came to die, isn’t it?”

Harry’s mouth went absolutely dry.

“It is.” Tom confirmed, knowing something he couldn’t  _ possibly  _ know. His eyes drifted to the exact spot on the floor where Harry remembered only moments before. Something Tom should not have known- what he  _ could not  _ have known.

“You were so scared.” Tom said, staring at that single unimportant spot in a quite large Chamber. “I’ve spent my life searching for this place, and you’ve already ruined it all.”

“I didn’t mean to. Ginny was going to die.”

Tom smiled thinly. “People die all the time. People who die easily,  _ they  _ are the ones you should be jealous of. Not defensive-.”

“Oh,  _ sorry,  _ it’s not like we’re talking about you trying to  _ kill me!” _

“Oh so now that’s  _ me?”  _ Tom  _ hissed,  _ voice higher pitch and furious. Harry felt it, like an ominous wave of water swishing over him, tugging on his legs and knees with the undertow. It was thick and wrong, like bread pudding choking you on its way down. 

“Well you’re not looking pretty innocent right there!” Harry spoke, unable to stop himself. Urged and coaxed by something that wasn’t him.  _ Do it,  _ something pressed and pushed-  _ do it. _

Harry took one step forward, Tom rose and unfolded his legs; they both drew their wands.

There was a pressure pulling on them both, pushing on the back of their necks behind their eyes. In their brains and behind something visceral. A deep adrenaline coo of  _ fight, fight-. _

“Go ahead, Potter.” Tom Riddle smiled and bared his teeth. “I’ve fought and won against things more impressive than you.”

“Same,” Harry said, “take a bloody look behind you.”

Tom  _ snarled.  _ Before they could think or move, they spoke as one synchronized entity and cast a stunner at the same time and angle. It hit in midair- an impossible action if not choreographed. Something- something  _ that could not- _

With a feather soft touch, Harry remembered the name of the brother wands meeting, the  Priori Incantatem.

It wasn’t that, it was something entirely different. As if there was a mirror between them, each moved in the exact same echo without any conscious decision dictating how to change exactly.

Two stunners clashed together like bombs exploded, once, twice- more times than luck or possibility. The probability dictated that it was impossible, and yet it continued over and over and-.

Tom flinched back, one hand flashing to his head as he made a loud gurgling cry of pain. He crumpled to one knee, clutching his face although no spell had hit. The shock broke whatever tension had been made, leaving Harry standing over Tom with his wand held aloft.

“Get  _ out,”  _ Tom hissed furiously into his hand,  _ “of my head.” _

Harry froze, horrified. He could only think of the flashes he had- the nightmares, the  _ pain,  _ the- 

_ Kill the spare! _

“No,” Harry gasped out horrified, “no,  _ no.  _ Shite- Tom-.”

Harry reached down, Tom flinched away with a low keening noise. Harry froze, Tom twitched in restrained agony, and then flicked his wrist.

“Shite!” Harry gasped, clutching his arm and stumbling to his knees. His bicep gushed blood, his fingers of his left arm already going numb from how deep the cutting curse had hit. Tom groaned low in his throat, hand squeezing hard against his temples.

Harry hissed out a breath, pulling his hand away to survey the damage. It kept bleeding, a dark colour that looked nearly black in the low lighting. Tom managed to get to his knees, still bent over in pain. Harry didn’t know what he had done- what he was doing.

“Stop,” Harry gasped out, anxiety thrumming and pain and paranoia and something was  _ pounding  _ behind him and- “Tom, just... _ stop.” _

The pressure let up, and Tom heaved a gasp of air as if he had been suffocating.

He heaved, sprawling onto his back to gasp. His diaphragm rose and fell frantically, rib cage lifting high like smooth spider legs.

“... _ shite.”  _ Tom gasped, hand digging firmly into his skull as his body twitched. “The  _ bloody-.” _

“You okay?” Harry asked. His arm stung, but in a cold distant way. Like he was walking outside in the cold without shoes. “You aren’t unconscious are you?”

Tom said something vulgar, managing to get both his forearms under him to lift into a braced sprawl. They rose, disjointed and wobbly, tired and hurting.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Harry winced in sympathy, “I ah, got headaches a lot.”

Tom looked at him with a foul look. A stink eye if Harry had to label it.

“ _ That,”  _ Tom said, “was  _ not  _ a headache-.”

“I got visions too,” Harry offered with a grimace of disgust. “Hurts like a hot poker and weird flashes of things? Sometimes a snake-faced ugly bastard?”

Tom watched Harry a moment longer, his scowl shifting into more a frown. “...No vision.”

_ But yes,  _ went unsaid. 

Tom’s eyes flickered down. Harry’s blood dripped steadily onto the floor.

“This brings back memories.” Harry grimaced, hissing out in pain as he prodded the wound. A clean cut- severe but not enough to kill him.

“Bad ones, I presume.” Tom said, quietly approaching. He conjured bandages, unraveling fairly adequate cotton to observe the wound critically. He saw something in the blood, the black inky iron that looked slippery and weird in the chamber light. “You’re bleeding.”

Harry was, but the statement felt rhetoric. Tom looked at the wound, his frown deepening ever so slightly. He eyed the blood, seeping out slowly, but enough to suggest a danger for long term movement. Tom set aside the bandages, looking contemplative.

“We must be miles down…” Tom said, more to himself. He pulled his wand, the glow illuminated his face and sharpened the hollows of his chin. “You’re lucky you can hold aloft a light. Cleaner this way.”

“What?” Harry asked, fumbling to cast a hasty  _ lumos! _

Tom’s face betrayed nothing as he slid his wand alongside Harry’s wound, hissing out a quiet rolling word “ _ Concres!” _

Harry screeched, voice cracking off sharply into ragged breathing. His body twitched, sagging as he fell to his knees pitifully. Tom looked expectantly at him, having anticipated such a reaction.

“Blood boiling curse, a minor one.” Tom said flatly. “Your arm will be clotted. The pain will fade.”

Harry hissed a breath, eyeing his arm. The skin was flushed and sore, blood that had trickled free looked flaky like ash. The wound itself was hard and raw, like jelly had a torch lit to the skin itself. It felt unbearably painful.

“It’ll last you until you can be fixed in the infirmary.” Tom said, “and prevent infection and blood loss.”

“How do you  _ know  _ this?” Harry gasped out, feeling black spots fleck his vision as he stumbled to his feet, “this is- this is bloody  _ dark.” _

“You can’t be picky when you’re going to die.” Tom scowled, “healing magic does not affect yourself; only those with different magic.”

“You  _ boiled my arm.” _

“I did, and look, you aren’t bleeding.” Tom pointed out, rolling his eyes with a huff. “I have a bloody headache the size of Big Ben, let’s  _ go  _ already.”

Harry wasn’t willing to look a gift horse in the face, so he stumbled to his feet and followed along.

The bleeding  _ had  _ stopped, although his arm hurt significantly worse. The pipe adjusted to their movements, gravity rolling around them until they ascended up the pipe near vertical. Their shoes stuck to the side- which clarified quite a few questions Harry had. The basilisk was long, but even then it would be quite an effort to climb near vertically up a pipe. Instead the ground... _ shifted,  _ so walking up the sleek surface was as easy as walking along a corridor.

The pipe opened at the top into a gentle four step climb. The washroom was empty, even Myrtle vanished somewhere for the Halloween festivities. A good thing too, since she had not fond memories of Tom’s (now slimy) face.

“You’re bleeding.” Harry said, surprising even himself. Tom was bleeding- gashed along his left hairline and matted in his hair. It was hard to see, flaking and thin. A little amount of blood then, coming from a wound inflicted from the Chamber. It matched the eye with the small burst vessel. A single blood drop staining the side of his left eye, broken from violent vomiting.

Tom brushed his hands through his hair, small flakes of dry rust fluttered to the soggy ground. Tom ignored it, rubbing one eye vigorously.

Harry’s arm hurt; Tom’s room was in the hospital wing anyways. They walked, quiet and somber and deep in contemplation.

In better lighting, Harry could investigate his arm better.

He didn’t know what he expected from it, but the sight left him cringing. The gash had been deep and painful, the clotted wound even more so. Harry knew of cauterizing- pressing hot metal to an open wound to seal it shut via baking the skin. This must have been on par, or inspired by it. The fluid was crusty and thick, like someone poured black cement and let it set and clog his arm. He could feel it, the angry harsh pulse of it and the static tingling at the tips of his fingers. His nail beds were turning blue, a shade shy of light indigo.

Tom noticed but didn’t seem alarmed. He acted like he had done such a thing before.

“Great.” Harry winced, hurrying along as Tom kept up his quick pace. “I get another bloody scar, Can’t you maniacs leave my goddamn arms alone?”

“Never,” Tom said dryly, shoving the Hospital Wing doors open with one shoulder.

Madam Pomfrey looked up- her face crumbling into exasperation and resignation. “Mr. Potter, can you not last  _ one year?” _

Harry would have rubbed the back of his neck if he could- his arm throbbed once more.

“Sorry, Madam.” Tom said, shifting his upper torso into what looked almost like a half  _ bow,  _ “I found him in such a state.”

Harry scowled and started to trudge towards what he knew was his assigned bed. There was a student in another, moaning and clutching his stomach. Likely the subject of a prank, or he overate on Honeydukes sweets. 

“You’re lucky I’m always expecting you, Mr. Potter.” Madam Pomfrey sighed, wheeling her small travel cart of various diagnostic tools over. “What is it this time, a broken bone? A mild concussion?”

“Just my arm.” Harry grimaced, holding it aloft.

At once Madam Pomfrey’s face fell into something like mild shock. She supported his elbow, running her wand over the thick hard crust with a quickly blank expression. “Mr. Potter, who did this to you?”

“I did.” Tom said very calmly. “It is a minor blood boiling curse, it was taught as standard first aid for deep lacerations.”

Madam Pomfrey’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “This curse has been removed from any sort of curriculum, in fact, it’s practically  _ outlawed.  _ It hasn’t been used by...by field medics in  _ decades.” _

Tom didn’t look surprised. Harry suspected that he had already known that. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if Tom knew a half dozen healing spells, and instead chose to burn Harry’s blood like a royal git.

“My apologies then, Madam.” Tom said, smooth like the performer he was, “I see that I’ll have to speak to the Headmaster to see if any sort of discrepancies lay in my education. I would not wish to repeat such an offense.”

Madam Pomfrey didn’t look fooled. “I’ll speak with Albus, you go right ahead.”

“Tom has a headache!” Harry blurted, managing to press a stink eye. “I ah, I managed to smart him pretty well when he did this mess.”

“Yes, I can see that. This curse  _ does  _ hurt…” Madam Pomfrey mused, beckoning for Tom to sit down on the other accompanying bed. Tom scowled, composing himself the moment Madam Pomfrey turned to survey him.

“Sit tight, let me scan you.” She waved her wand, mumbling out a half dozen or so spells before she tapped a sheet of parchment, dark lines fluttering out in various patterns that likely meant something to her.

She frowned at the results with a huff, “I only checked your head, but it looks like you have some swelling. I haven’t diagnosed further, but if what Mr. Potter says is correct, you must have had quite the hit.”

Tom said nothing. Harry suddenly felt far more attentive.

“Mr. Riddle, have you had any dizziness?” She asked, rustling around in her cart, “any memory loss? Difficulty walking on the way here?”

Tom very stiffly said, “no.”

“Then it likely is a mild concussion, Mr. Potter  _ is  _ on the Quidditch team.” Madam Pomfrey explained, “I can look further, but-.”

“It’s fine.” Tom said sharply. “I’ll just sleep it off.”

“Allow me to find you a calming draught,” she said, “It’ll relieve any minor inflammation you have, at least to help you sleep tonight. Just this one, they aren’t good long term use.”

Tom said nothing as she quickly walked off to her private stores.

“A  _ concussion?”  _ Harry hissed to him under his breath, “I didn’t even bloody  _ hit you!  _ I never got a concussion from-.”

“Can you be quiet, for  _ once in your life?” _

Madam Pomfrey came back, passing over an unassuming small bottle of a calming draught. Tom took it, downing it under her eye before passing back the glass, folding his arms sourly on the cot he would be forced to stay in overnight. It must have been especially aggravating considering his bedroom was within sight.

“And  _ you,  _ Mr. Potter. I’ll have to liquefy this boiled portion before patching your vessels. Thankfully it shouldn’t take too long to do…”

It didn’t. By the time Harry had the worlds largest blood clot removed from his arm, Tom was fast asleep.

* * *

 

Harry dreamed that the air was filled with dust, and that the sun beat down on him rudely.

It stunk, a thick stench like hot tarmac in summer. The temperature burning into his skin like he had been weeding Aunt Petunia’s garden for hours. It burned, the back of his neck felt leathery and raw.

Harry Potter dreamed that he walked, limping and sore with boots too large for his feet. His hands were small, his stomach cramping and eating itself with the viciousness of his hunger.

He looked at the sky then shoved his eyes downwards. There would be no solace in the clouds, no water or rain to bring him relief. The broken stone under his shoes led him towards the rubble of buildings. He remembered this one, an old butcher that brought in shipments of pork and beef. Harry dreamed that he knew the dog, the small yipping creature that someone had eaten in a fit of desperation. Harry was out of tickets for milk and bread, and he was starving himself thin.

He scrounged through rubble, the broken glass of the front window. He searched, turning opened tins on their sides to pour out rat droppings. The insides had already been picked cleaned, foraged through. He would be hungry again that night.

_ “Oi!”  _ someone shouted behind him, a taller man who looked thin and weary. His clothes sagged on  his body, he was hungry as well.  _ “Wha’ you f’ink you doin in f’ere!” _

Harry bit back a curse, his lips splitting from his teeth. He  _ knew  _ it was stupid to go out during the day. He  _ knew  _ he should have waited until nightfall, like he always had.

_ “No’fing!”  _ Harry said, voice higher and rounded over the vowels. A different accent he had never had.  _ “I’ll be on my way then-.” _

_ “No you bloody don’!”  _ The man shouted, hungry with bright glazed eyes. Harry cursed, scrambling over broken stone and the busted mortar into the back of the store. The man screamed, chasing in. He ran, the man chased after.

The air was dusty and stunk of mildew from the rain last week. The shelves were barren, old wood that once hung pork now hung barren. It was a fool’s attempt to find something to eat, even his stomach agreed. He had chosen poorly and acted out in his desperation, and now his pursuer was looking for his prey.

Harry dreamed he was running, being chased. He managed to weave in the back storeroom, slipping out the main entrance and darting for the freedom of open air. Over the broken glass, the wall that had caved in and granted him entry.

_ “No you li’le shi’!”  _ The man screamed, tackling him and Harry screamed in response. The glass bit his skin, piercing his face. He had found a can of beans in the back ruins, hidden under a shelf he hid alongside. He had food in his bag, and a starving half crazed man over him. 

_ “Give me wha’ you bloody go’!”  _ The man shouted, thighs pinning down his hips. Panic, desperation- Harry’s fingers scrambled and horrible visions flashed before his eyes.

_ “No! Ge’ off!”  _ Harry shouted back, jerking desperately to remove him. He didn't have a knife or a weapon, the glass was too small to cut anything free.

The man’s eyes turned more hungry, in a different sort of raw fury. Harry’s fingers landed on a chunk of brick, broken from the wall. 

He slung his arm, weak and thin but the cobblestone jerked with was strong. A bit of granite, torn from the rubble colliding with the man’s skull.

The man went limp, blood sprayed out and kept pooling at such speed Harry’s first worry was that he had crushed his can of beans.

He managed to his knees, bleeding and realized in a cold distant way, that the man’s head had been cleaved open. His brain was a wet red and white, like the light fat along cattle’s belly hanging in the windows.

_ “No!”  _ Harry shouted, numb and horrified and  _ “wake up, oh- oh Lord I didn’ mean t- wake up! Wake up!” _

The man’s eyes were glazed, looking in different directions. His brain oozed out like mincemeat, drooling on the pavement.

_ “Wake up.”  _ Harry said, breathing far too quickly as sobs bubbled,  _ “I- I didn’ mean t’ k- K-.” _

His hands were shaking. He couldn’t breathe.

_ I didn’t mean to kill you.  _ Harry thought brokenly.  _ I’m a killer now. _

_ I’m a murderer now. _

Harry was twelve.

Harry leaned over, and puked bile onto the broken cobblestone.

He was  _ so hungry. _

* * *

 

He opened his eyes. Every inch of his body was covered in icy sweat; his bed covers were twisted all around him like a straitjacket; he felt as though a Tom’s bloody curse had been poured through his skull.

Harry moaned, slapping the side table for his glasses. The night was quiet, even the boy with the stomachache was quiet. 

Harry shifted, his breathing was shaky and his heart fluttered in terror. The dream had...no, the  _ nightmare  _ was horrible. Absolutely wretched. He had never experienced something like that before, not in such a fine detail.

A low whimpering noise caused Harry to part the curtains. It was hard to see in the dark, but the bed nearest him was filled with a writhing shape. Obscured by a thin blanket, the larger comforter had been kicked askew. The pillow too, lay on the floor.

“Tom?” Harry whispered sharply, feeling very alarmed at the sight of the other boy contorted ever so slightly. Uncomfortably tense, shifting in a ever so fine tremble Harry almost missed it. “ _ Tom?” _

Tom awoke with a high pitched yelp, slugging a fist across his body so suddenly, Harry almost was hit. He wasn’t, even as Tom jerked himself to a seated position, panting heavily and clutching his head.

Harry too, was feeling agony through his skull. Tom though, looked nearly on the very of screaming.

“Are you…?” Harry asked, trailing off when he realized it wasn’t panting. Tom was sobbing, open gasped heaving noises. It must have hurt.

“Go to  _ bloody sleep.”  _ Tom hissed, fisting his hand in the privacy curtain to yank it shut. 

Harry stayed awake, unnerved, for a long time after.

 


	13. Ordo Salutis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Crina is more than what others thought, and Tom has a very not good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! This chapter may have sensitive content in it!

Harry woke up well past the time birds were chirping. Despite that, the moment awareness sunk into him, he could instantly feel the tense atmosphere and the hasty shushed voices of an argument.

Harry slowly pulled his bed draped back, feeling quite surprised to spot the prim and proper stature of Crina Dimitriu standing at the foot of Tom Riddle’s bed.

“Uh, hello.” Harry said, fumbling for his glasses. He threw a look at the clock, “It’s uh, It’s six in the morning?”

“Time zones, it’s near seven in my time.” Crina said without any hesitation. Her large fur cloak was absent, exchanged for a thinner fur robe that looked no less ridiculous. Harry could see what looked like individual mink skins sewn together around the length of it. It must have cost a fortune, although Crina never seemed to pause on expense. Harry wondered if other things in her life were equally odd- did she have an entire wardrobe filled only with fur?

“Oh,” Harry said. His mind still fogged itself on sleep, struggling over basic things like words and meanings. “I uh…”

Harry was suddenly very aware that he was wearing only his boxers below the hospital wing bedsheets. Crina Dimitriu was likely older than Professor McGonangall, but Harry couldn’t help but feel incredibly uncomfortable. Speaking to anyone with power and authority while in underclothes tended to make him uncomfortable. It was sad considering how often it occurred too.

“Don’t mind me.” Crina said, sounding uniquely ticked by something Harry didn’t know. Likely the hushed conversation just before he woke. “Pardon me a moment-.”

Crina fished in a small pouch at her side, pulling out a collection of dark pins she scattered on Tom’s bed. The boy said nothing, staring quietly at his feet as Crina began to twist and fasten her hair. Her hair wasn’t... _ long,  _ but Harry had always seen her in some state of formal wear, or at least professional work attire that never quite fit standards Harry recognized. Aunt Petunia would have a heart attack at the thought of Crina.

She fastened one last pin into her hair, not having enough to wrangle all of it into a proper bun. Harry wondered why she didn’t use magic to fix her hair, but Crina tended to approach things in a surprisingly muggle way. Harry looked at Tom, who didn’t seem alarmed or affronted by the action.

“That’s good enough.” Crina said to herself, huffing slightly before she sat on the end of Tom’s bed. She managed to avoid his feet, resting on the gap between the baseboard and the end of the mattress. “Good morning Harry, I trust you’re feeling better?”

Harry blinked, surprised. He was feeling a bit overwhelmed by Crina so early in the morning. “Yes, I mean, I’m fine. It was just a scratch.”

“I hadn’t known the details, only that my ward placed another student in hospitalization.” Crina said rather calmly considering the weight of the news. “I had to come in person, to understand the implications of it. That, and apparently Tom Riddle is  _ idiotic enough  _ to develop an inflamed brain. Why had nobody thought to inform  _ me?  _ A  _ psychiatrist?” _

Ah, that would be a good reason for why she appeared so furious. An inflamed brain would have some sort of...presence, her not catching it either offended her professional capabilities, or wounded her pride for her own medical treatment.

Tom breathed very slowly through his nose and said nothing. Harry felt a bit at a loss as well. Comforting Crina would be idiotic considering she was a grown woman. Mentioning that Tom had seemed off would likely come across as rude, that, and Harry wanted to  _ leave  _ the hospital wing before the boy cursed him out again.

“That’s beside the matter at hand…” Crina sighed, looking a bit tired. Harry realized that for her to be here she must have dropped all of her important commitments upon notice. He couldn’t imagine that Crina would leave her prison in poor hands, so she must have…She must have instantly leapt into action, finding and stumbling through hasty arrangements to manage an impulsive leave of absence. She would have procured a way to travel across the  _ world,  _ since Nurmengard was located on the mainland of Europe.

“Yes, I’m tired.” Crina said, eyeing Harry with a frown. She did have small bags under her eyes, not nearly as noticeable as they could have been. Her body language reflected her exhaustion, her preference to sit instead of stand. “You two would have given me liver failure at this rate.”

Tom managed a small huff, looking absolutely miserable. Harry wished he had heard what they were discussing before he woke. It couldn’t have been good, since both Crina and Tom seemed quiet and distressed. Harry hadn’t seen him like that before.

The hospital wing was empty besides them, even the bedside tables were empty of sweets the twins had promised him. Tom looked very small in the large bed. 

“I’m considering discussing your living situation with the Headmaster.” Crina said very coolly. “Since your sad state is reason to suspect you’ve been neglecting the nutrition potions prescribed to you. Would you like to tell me what else you’ve been hiding?”

Tom lifted his eyes very slowly and glared sharply. “I don’t know, what  _ have  _ I been hiding?”

Harry felt very much like he was intruding.

“”I’m considering your placement within the Gryffindor Tower, under Harry Potter’s eye considering that you two seem to be within close proximity under every instance of trouble.”

“It was my fault!” Harry blurted, anxiously shifting in his bed. “Tom didn’t- I mean-.”

“Tom hospitalized you,” Crina said, “why do you believe that such a thing is your fault?”

Harry felt his throat tighten slightly. “Well, I- it  _ is  _ my fault. We...we got in a fight and-.”

“I was simply the better shot.” Tom said coldly, voice slightly hoarse from sleep. “That’s all.”

Crina looked skeptically between the two. Displeased, unsure, or perhaps exhausted of them both. “You  _ do  _ understand, I utilize the minds of pathological liars and monsters and here you are, two teenage boys, thinking you can  _ lie to my face.” _

“Is it working?” Tom asked, more rhetorically and cruel even in his own ears.

Crina’s jaw shifted ever so slowly, a horizontal glide of her molars. “This reminds me of the alleged stabbing attempt on your arm.”

Tom mirrored her jaw, and ground his teeth similarly. Harry wondered if they were even aware of how they subconsciously mirrored each others social cue.

“That was  _ his  _ fault.” Tom accused Harry, although his words had little bite to them. By clarifying the incident, it shifted away the notion that their fight was in any way related to that prior incident.

Yet, it  _ was.  _ Back then, Harry remembered very strongly that foreign haze. That unfiltered raw desire for Tom to hurt- and then he had. The chamber had a similar filter, a rose hued mirror that shifted and turned both boys into marionettes controlled by some unwilling third party. It was unique, different in comparison to the action of Tom stabbing himself, but inexplicably similar. 

“We just copied each other.” Harry said, breaking the intense staring contest between the woman and her patient. “Is that a thing? Magical copying?”

Crina frowned, irritation swapping for cold professionalism. Her entire body relaxed ever so slightly, loosening the muscles of her neck and the ones giving herself a toothache. 

“A...magical copying.” Crina digested the words, “there is a...behaviour, where individuals mirror another’s movements and behaviours in subliminal attempts to build rapport.”

Harry wondered, curiously, if Tom knew that he had been doing  _ just that  _ with Crina  _ seconds ago. _

“No.” Tom said coldly. “It was...synchronized.”

Crina looked between Tom and Harry, eyes flickering across both of their sorry states. Tom, with blood crusted near his hairline and Harry with a bandage around his arm. Crina looked at them, and then looked further.

“In muggle medical science, there are...parts of our brain and mind, that impact our behaviour based on actions performed by others. Mirror neurons, they aid in our physiological mechanisms for action coupling. Our understanding of what actions are and how they operate.”

“I don’t care for…” Tom paused, his nose scrunching in an expression of disgust, “ _ muggle science.” _

“You’d be surprised,” Crina said, “it isn’t all...exorcisms and drinking paint thinner now.”

Tom made a small movement. Harry couldn’t tell if it was a shrug or a flinch.

“It may be something along those lines. Mirror Neurons, unfortunately, fall into the area of Muggle Studies that best reflect neuroscience. Of course, no studies have been made with magical interactions, and I haven’t the resources to investigate such.”

“What would it take for you to obtain these resources?” Tom asked, calm and cold. His entire body language was still... _ off,  _ inexplicably shamed or irritable or some sort of mixture.

“A year with a dozen experimental studies.” Crina said with a scoff, “It’s impossible. Pure speculation on my side, but I’m always glad to experiment-.”

_ “No,”  _ Tom snarled quietly, “I refuse.”

And that was that.

“I’ve had issues of my own.” Harry said, feeling brave for a small moment. “With…”

Harry reached up jerkily. His fingertips brushed along his fringe, adjusting the horrible cow’s lick of black hair to show off his hated scar. He knew that Crina understood, although her eyes never deviated from his own rather respectfully.

“I’ve had... _ visions,  _ and...it hurt when.. _ he,  _ was close and-.”

“It hasn’t hurt since?” Crina asked. “No double vision- not your perspective rather. No intrusive thoughts or overlaying thought patterns?”

“Uh, no. None of that.” Harry said, already feeling a bit baffled. He had never been questioned so carefully before. Normally Medical witches and wizards just waved a wand and frowned obnoxiously when nothing came up. “Professor Dumbledore says its residual from where I was hit with the killing curse.”

Tom’s eyes snapped over, staring at Harry blankly. Either he had surprised Tom, or insulted him in some way.

“Right, ignoring what Dumbledore and everyone else in this absolutely backwards society has said to you, have you experienced any lost time? Hours slipping by with no recollection as to where it went?”

“No.” Harry said, “sometimes I... _ feel...emotions.” _

For the first time in Harry’s life, a medical witch did not look at him with pity. “Which emotions in particular?”

“Why is this important?” Tom asked, interrupting the strange kinship that was being made before his eyes. “Emotions are fickle-.”

“Emotions are constructed by various chemicals in our brain. Depending on which emotions are being felt, I can determine which chemicals are being influenced. It’s how potions work, Tom.” Crina said almost in a patronizing coo.

Tom sulked, clearly not used to being out of the loop.

“Happiness.” Harry said quietly, “when he’s mad. Disappointed, or pleased. It hurts, a lot. Sometimes my scar bleeds, and its always red like when you get stung by-.”

“That’s quite alright.” Crina looked a bit confused, but not at all the lost expression Harry had seen so many times before. “There's various chemicals you won’t know- Norepinephrine for example has a key role in several functions. Increased activity leads to mania, and has a role with pain perception. I imagine that your brain is quite an interesting place, Mr. Potter, but I have no doubt that your suffering is in no way... _ residual  _ effect of a Curse Scar.”

“What?”

“Curse Scars react and affect our magical core, yours seems isolated except for various instances where you access it- which  _ has  _ affected Tom if my guess is correct.” Crina looked at Tom with a completely serious face. “Did you experience foreign emotions and pain either the knife incident, or whatever disaster you two stumbled into last night?”

_ Yes,  _ Harry thought.

“No.” Tom said sharply, “now go away.”

Oh, Crina did not like that. 

Whatever peace had been constructed with Harry’s cooperation fell and crumbled under Tom’s cranky state. Crina’s smile became forced, then waspish as her words found venom. Her direction shifted, closing Harry off and once more the battle evolved into Crina’s personal offended feelings and Tom’s petty stubborn nature.

“To lie is to sin, Tom.” Crina said, smiling sharp and  _ cruel,  _ “or is it time for me to finally address your tendencies for religious masochism?”

Tom stiffened so firmly, Harry was afraid he had been petrified. It was nothing like the quasi flinch from before. Crina showed her fangs and bit in  _ hard.  _ The time for civil discussion was over- Harry learned first hand that interacting with Tom normally ended in violence.

Harry swallowed, trying to ignore how unsettling the little showdown was. Harry wasn’t supposed to be here- but at the same time he felt included. Crina  _ wanted  _ him to know this information; she had been serious with her consideration for moving Tom to a more public area. She had been serious with her professional aid with Harry’s scar. She had been serious with saying such a cruel personal thing  _ right in front of Harry. _

“Oh, yes.” Crina said, “You must consider me  _ dim  _ to ignore your behaviours. I’d be kind to label you masochistic- I dare say you’ve never heard such a term.”

Tom’s stiff limbs never relaxed, instead he seemed absolutely frozen. With how outdated his understanding of medicine and psychiatry was, perhaps her words had devastating weight behind them. Implications he didn’t like, a level of intimate knowledge that terrified him. Crina didn’t stop- perhaps this was her only opportunity to prove that she was certifiably  _ smart.  _ The only chance she had to prove that giving her information was within their best interests.

Tom learned through pain, and Crina had to qualms with being gentle.

“Mortification is the name of you voluntary offering up discomfort and your pain to God. Fasting, self-flagellation, that cilice you think you’ve been  _ so sneaky  _ with. I can’t blame you in truth. There’s been a long history of mortification in the Catholic Church. It was endorsed by a pope, wasn’t it? Something along the lines of... _ let him-.” _

“Let him deny himself,” Tom said, words a feral snarl, “take up his cross daily and follow me.”

Perhaps that was what Crina had wanted. Perhaps it was unexpected. She didn’t look  _ pleased,  _ but instead held herself tight with a restrained sort of presence. She appeared unhappy. She had expected Tom to finish the religious verse.

Needlessly, Crina said, “I’ve researched into your little plight.”

“You have  _ no right-.” _

“Psychological Issues where you address your  _ oh so wounded human nature,  _ or your... _ inclination to sin  _ as the reason for resorting to extreme corporal mortifications- tell me Tom, have you learned that lesson yourself or was it whipped into you?”

Harry blinked, and felt blood coat his fingers. The sharp stench and burn of vomit in his throat. He remembered the sightless gaze of a man bludgeoned to death under a brick.

_ Wake up, please wake up! _

Whatever vicious response Tom may have said was brutally interrupted by the slamming of the Hospital Wing doors. They bounced once, swinging jauntily on old hinges as in stormed a woman in a pink fuzzy robe.

Harry couldn’t help but give a small groan. Professor Umbridge, storming into a hospital at six in the bloody morning. She couldn’t have any worse timing than Fawkes delivering him the Sorting Hat.

Instantly, Crina slid from her seat on Tom’s bed to stand regally in her long mink cloak. Messy hair, face untouched and naked of all adornments. Somehow, she appeared more regal and respected than Professor Umbridge. Perhaps it was the mink, suspiciously flatter than her normal overwhelming  _ poof.  _ Crina was taller, sleeker (literally with the fur), and appeared in every way Professor Umbridge’s opposite. 

Professor Umbridge looked like she had barely the time to prepare herself before storming down the halls to the Hospital Wing. Harry spotted what looked like a small hair curler unraveling and folding itself away magically only seconds before she came to a stomp before Crina Dimitriu. Harry wanted to argue that Crina had literally finished doing her hair with pins on Tom’s bed only a half hour earlier, but even her brown hair looked better. Umbridge was...short, nearly a full head smaller than Crina. 

Although, Harry wasn’t sure how much of Crina’s height was synthetic since he  _ remembered  _ she wore absolutely ridiculous knee high boots under all that fur.

“How  _ dare you!”  _ Professor Umbridge bellowed, face flushing red before their eyes. It contrasted poorly with the paler pink cosmetic blush she dabbed onto her cheeks. Harry didn’t know much about makeup, but her eyeshadow was an odd shade of blue for the cotton candy pink of her dressing gown.

“Hello there.” Crina said very calmly and completely inexpressive, “please hold.”

Crina Dimitriu turned her back absolutely on Professor Umbridge, as if she were a telemarketer. Professor Umbridge spluttered, clearly unsure how to react. Harry would have laughed if not for how surreal the entire situation felt.

“You two,” Crina said, eyes flickering between both Harry and Tom, and their exact same bed and bedclothes, “have disappointed me. Beyond words.”

Harry wondered if this was what it felt like to be scolded by a parental figure. Tom wouldn’t know either.

“I-  _ you have no right to be in my castle!”  _ Professor Umbridge wailed in fury, “you are  _ not  _ welcome here! Why I- I ought to message the Minister right now and-.”

“Oh, I see.” Crina smiled quite fake, the expression of a woman who had to deal with various governmental workers all the time. “You must be the desk staff here to collect Headmaster Dumbledore’s applications for Ministry appointed finances. In that case, do pass along a kind word to the Minister for me, yes? Off you go now.”

Professor Umbridge surpassed red and ascended to righteous maroon fury. 

“How  _ dare you!”  _ Professor Umbridge screamed, “you are  _ not welcome here Dimitriu!” _

Harry wanted to ask how Professor Umbridge  _ knew Crina-  _ someone who, as far as he understood, was quite a recluse. She only appeared after Dumbledore had bribed her with  _ Tom.  _ How did Professor Umbridge know her?

Harry wanted to ask, but then he saw a dark foul gleam in Crina’s eye. A dark look that reminded Harry of Sirius before he told off someone. The eyes of someone who had seen hell, and now had to deal with an insufferable yapping pup.

“First,” Crina said, her voice falling a few tones into something as chilly as a dementor. “It is  _ Frau Dimitriu,  _ unless you prefer the more old fashioned approach as you seem so inclined in this country. In which case, the proper address would be  _ Gracious Lady Dimitriu,  _ but I can see that may be a bit beyond your capabilities.”

Professor Umbridge opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap. The argument had...escalated. It didn’t feel the same as before, now it felt more personal. Dangerous with the insinuation that something bad  _ could  _ occur. Professor Umbridge was a dangerous and petty woman, but that didn’t invalidate the fact she  _ was  _ dangerous.

“You are not permitted to be here,  _ Frau Dimitriu.  _ As you have so politely mentioned, all international agents are required to enter the country through the Ministry of Magic, such as a  _ visa.” _

Crina’s eyebrows rose. There was something uniquely amusing how Crina, likely twenty years older than Professor Umbridge’s portly body, managed to look more refined and somehow more youthful. That, or her ridiculous mink coat was  _ less ridiculous  _ than Professor Umbridge’s fuzzy pink robe.

“How kind of you to intrude on governmental affairs whilst in a position of academic purpose.” Crina mused quietly, “I do enjoy overachievers. Fortunately, I  _ do  _ have credentials allowing me into this...country. Unfortunately I believe that information is  _ above  _ your payroll.”

“It is  _ not  _ when I am facing an  _ illegal entry to-.” _

“I have filed all the proper paperwork, and currently possess the status of an International Work Visa with the clause that I may work within any residential country of a patient.”

Professor Umbridge inhaled and exhaled so dramatically, Harry could spot her throat expand and shrink. It was an inspirational sight, something the Twins had been trying to obtain for the entire school year so far.

“Frau Dimitriu, on behalf of the British Ministry of Magic and her associated peoples, you are under arrest on suspicion of illegal human magical experimentation, in violation of the Dark Magic registry act of 1985. You do not have to say anything, however anything you say may harm your defense if you-.”

_ What. _

“I beg your pardon?” Crina blurted, eyebrows so high she looked thoroughly shocked. Her eyes flickered to Professor Umbridge in legitimate surprise. “You claim I am  _ under arrest  _ by  _ British law?” _

Harry noted that Tom was very  _ very  _ still.

He was too.

_ Crina was wanted by the Ministry? _

For  _ human experimentation? _

“Yes.” Professor Umbridge shoved her chin upright, signifying the slight height difference between the two even further. “You are wanted for the violation of human magical exp-.”

“Yes, I know.” Crina snapped out sharply, “I heard you the first time. Do you understand the absolute  _ rubbish  _ that is that statement? I am the  _ International Warden of your prisoners.  _ All unethical experimentation has been conducted by  _ your people  _ then kindly deposited on my doorstep. I have documentation and research proving such a thing- you want to go to the International _ World Court?” _

“Gellert Grindelwald arrived to Nurmengard with all limbs attached. Information  _ proves  _ that Gellert Grindelwald now lacks both arms, as well as his tongue-.”

“All permissions regarding human autonomic rights of Gellert Grindelwald returned to the governing magical body of _Austria,_ then to _the Warden of Nurmengard_ , ergo, _my abilities._ Your meddling itself is a violation of my own protected privacy-.”

“You have violated the British Humanitarian Efforts-.”

“You have violated the  _ Austrian Public Security Act-.” _

“You are  _ wanted!”  _ Professor Umbridge screamed. It was so shrill, so sharp that everyone fell silent at the noise. Harry’s ears rang, Tom looked pale.

Crina silenced herself, looking taken aback.

“You are  _ a wanted woman,”  _ Professor Umbridge said, voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. Harry’s heart thrummed in his throat, his entire body felt twitchy and fueled by adrenaline. 

Umbridge continued on her rant, “by the  _ Ministry of Magic!  _ I will take you into custody  _ now  _ and-.”

Crina Dimitriu, Frau Dimitriu, the Baron ruler of the most infamous prison in all the Magical World,  _ snorted. _

“I have better things to do.” Crina said coldly, “like taking a bubble bath.”

She turned on her feet, walked sharply in her high boots right into the fireplace, and flood away in a puff of green smoke.

Professor Umbridge stared at the fireplace, looking stunned by her sharp departure. With a quick twist, Professor Umbridge grabbed a nearby pillow, threw it, and  _ screamed. _

Harry’s breathing hitched as a strange feeling slid over his skin. Thick and slightly damp, like a dog’s tongue somehow drooled over every portion of his body. Harry jerked a bit at the unexpected feeling, looking to his side. Tom had his wand out, still looking alarmed and incredibly tense. Anxiety fluttered in Harry’s chest; he wasn’t so sure it was only his.

A moment passed, then Umbridge screeched out a shrill  _ Albus Dumbledore!  _ She stomped out, thick slippers flopping as she stormed out in a bright ball of pink. Harry’s breathing relaxed with a sharp gulp of air, his nerves fried.

“What did you  _ do?”  _ Harry asked, looking spooked. He noticed that Tom’s hands were justifiably shaking.

“A charm,” Tom choked out, “so she didn’t turn on us.”

Harry couldn’t stop himself from shaking. He felt cold. “A notice-me-not?”

“No, different. Stronger.” Tom shivered visibly, a small jerk through his shoulders, “older.”

That was...smart. Charms and spells taught in Tom’s era wouldn’t be used now, thrown aside for being outdated. That being said, the older spells wouldn’t be readily recognized, or countered. Umbridge clearly hadn’t noticed them, which meant that whatever Tom did, worked.

They sat there, uncertain and alarmed and- deep down, Harry felt inexplicably violently betrayed.

* * *

Harry thought that it was a bit nice that almost immediately after the shock in the Hospital Wing, a nondescript barn owl was depositing him a small letter in familiar handwriting. Sirius was more discrete now, but with Remus working alongside him they had created a rather reliable system for letters. 

It was nice, in that deep ache that Harry could describe as loneliness. Sirius was just reaching out, trying to comfort him over an apparently stressful morning. Harry could only imagine the chaos of Dumbledore’s office after Professor Umbridge stormed off.

Although, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Sirius had known. That there was some sort of...unspoken white elephant surrounding Crina. Sirius was terrified of her the first time they met,  _ everyone  _ was terrified of her. Why?

Sure, Nurmengard was a deeply unsettling place. The Lupescu wolves were more terrifying than the Horntail, because they were  _ intelligent.  _ They could outsmart you, outpace you, tear you- literally, limb from limb. 

Sirius had been afraid of  _ Crina,  _ not her wolves or the prison itself. She presented a sort of...raw fear that Harry had managed to blind himself to until Umbridge screamed herself hoarse.

Harry wished, not for the first time, that he could just...floo straight to Sirius and demand answers himself. He couldn’t of course, but it didn’t help his temper.

The Gryffindor tower heard about his hospitalization; nobody was surprised. Hermione and Ron seemed a bit more worried, especially when the only suspect was Tom since Draco had been caught bullying the younger students late last night. Fred and George held true to their promise, showering Harry with sweets from the Halloween feast and countless test products that flooded only half the room with melted sugar.

The festivities were loud and warm. Soon, Harry forgot all about earlier that morning, until Fred and George were throwing nervous looks in his direction.

Harry had cultivated a keen sense of knowing when bad news was likely to come. He liked to imagine it developed during his fourth year at Hogwarts, with the Triwizard Tournament and all, but considering he had been taught and tutored by a Death Eater the entire year posing as a man locked in a trunk, he had a sometimes faulty danger-radar.

“I have a feeling, this isn’t going to be good news.” Harry said instead of a greeting. George grimaced, confirming his suspicions.

“I’ll take over,” Fred assured his twin, stepping aside to shout over the chaos about more Butterbeers. The crowd of Gryffindor students cheered, George and Harry slipped away to the quieter study corner of the Gryffindor tower.

“Listen mate,” George started with a small wince, “we don’t mean to bother ya but-.”

“It’s Umbridge isn’t it.” Harry said, feeling a chill trickle down his spine, “it’s something bad.”

George had the empathy to at least look apologetic before he offered his hand. Harry looked at in, shocked and horrified by the silvery lines carved cruelly into the skin.  _ I must not be disruptive. _

“Afraid she’s been doing it to all the houses,” George continued, voice low as he spoke seriously, “Fred an’ I gathered a group of firsties sobbing outside her classroom last night.”

Harry’s hand twitched as he clutched his chair furiously.

“Ol’ Longbottem got some tentacles from the greenhouses, managed to whip up something for students comin’ back with it. Already went to McGonagall ‘bout it- says she can’t do anything with the High Inquisitor position.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, staring at the scars with a sick feeling in his gut. “All of her detentions are this?”

“Bloody surprised you didn’t get one yet. Fred an’ I want to handle it, thought about poison but too much effort…” George trailed off pointedly, glancing out over the tower.

Everyone was having a good time, laughing, joking. Throwing arms over each other, sipping butterbeer and feeling young and free. And Umbridge was hurting them all and nobody could do a thing to stop it.

If Harry hadn’t seen what he did this morning, he would have considered maybe messaging Crina. Now, he didn’t know how to feel about her.

“Over ‘eard Ronnikins and Hermione last night, scheming about all sorts of things.” George hummed, voice dropping quieter, “heard you held your own against Riddle and we’ve been thinking the same. We want you to teach us Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Harry stared at George. His mouth turned dry, hands clenching in sudden unexpected anxiety. He had never been so anxious before in his life, why had this suddenly sprouted now?

“We all wan’t to prepare ourselves, especially knowing that…” George trailed off.  _ That Tom Riddle is in the flesh.  _ “...Umbitch isn’t going to teach us shite, and I don’t know about you but it bloody pisses us off when ickle firsties are crying and bleeding into the bloody carpets.”

George was right. It didn’t make it easier.

“If you want me to contact Lupin…” Harry began.

“No no, the Order is too busy anyway. Fred and I- and some others who have been on the  _ hush hush  _ have mentioned your name a bit. You saved Ginny, did that Tournie last year, you bloody  _ outflew a dragon…” _

Harry watched the festivities. Someone conjured sparks, likely Seamus given that the drapery instantly caught on fire and suddenly two sixth years were desperately extinguishing it. 

“But, I’m not a teacher, I can’t-”

“Mate,” George said soothingly, “I’m not going to pressure you. Sure Hermione’s going to give it a shot, but I wanted to let you know. Not just because Fred and I reckon you’d be good- the whole bloody  _ school  _ thinks so. The Claws, the Puffs, bloody hell Harry,  _ everyone _ talks about you when you aren’t looking. I know it’s…” George trailed off with a small sigh through his nose, “it isn’t fun. I _ can't _ thank you enough for saving Ginny, but one day you aren’t going to  _ be here _ . Fred and I want to make sure that we’ve got a bloody  _ shot _ . Some of the older students, they know what this is like, what’s happening since you came back with the cup screaming about You-Know-Who. They’re  _ terrified _ mate, thinking they’re going to be the next one murdered or tortured or watch their family die. This school hasn't taught us how to survive that in classes and now that  _ bloody bitch  _ isn’t teaching us  _ anything-.” _

“I don’t know what it’s like in war either.” Harry said numbly. He said it, and instantly he knew he had  _ lied. _

Maybe it wasn’t... _ right,  _ to say that. Harry Potter had never been in a war. Harry Potter had never known what it was like to fear for your life every day. To be so desperate and terrified, so vicious and determined to survive he’d do  _ anything _ . 

Harry Potter didn’t know battle or war, but he remembered the feeling of thick blood and the smell of iron and feeling his brick smash a man’s face in.

_ I didn’t mean to kill you.  _ Harry remembered thinking.  _ I’m a killer now. _

“I don’t want to- to train an army.” Harry said, no matter how many times he swallowed he couldn’t get the nausea to fade. “I- I don’t want to prepare people how to die.”

“I know that, mate.” George said quietly. He looked at the back of his hand, smiling thin and dark as he traced the silver scar tissue. “I just think that- it would be bloody cheap if we had another goddamn Lockhart preaching about shite he doesn’t know about.”

It would be a disservice, for someone to teach them how to fight and defend themselves when they had sat in plush pink recline chairs and sipped tea all day. It would be a slap to the memory of everyone who had ever fallen, to pretend that there wasn’t a war brewing in the distance.

If Hermione had told him this, if she and Ron had begged Harry to teach them spells, Harry would have always argued. He would have protested, been offended maybe.

There was something about George, who had witnessed everything as a bystander and never had the ability to do  _ more-. _

“Okay.” Harry said. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

Hogwart’s schedule worked around multiple landmarks and timetables. The first weekend of October marked the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year.

Tom had ignored it, and its subsequent weekend towards later that month. The next visit, the third, was marked for the first weekend of November.

For the convenience of family meeting family- friends and siblings apparating and floo’ing in to spend the day with students, all Hogsmeade weekends were public knowledge if you knew where to look.

Tom often ignored it, he had few memories of Hogsmeade that mattered to him. He wasn’t one for nostalgia. His finances were a conundrum that would not be helped through the spending of knuts in a candy store, or wasting the afternoon drinking tea. Not to mention the hike to Hogsmeade as the season became colder was irritating. He had better things to do.

It was only his luck, that the day before the November Hogsmeade weekend, a casual brown owl flapped into the kitchens and deposited a letter on the table in front of him. He should have known that staying out of the Great Hall wouldn’t prevent mail. House Elves had to receive kitchen requests for banquets and club meetings somehow, even with Professor Umbridge shutting down opportunities left and right.

The owl waited for him, pecking at toast he had been carefully eating in moderation. Ever since Crina had mentioned his sickly appearance, he had been more careful with the uncontrollable urges to eat and  _ eat.  _ The house elves were polite and respected his uncharacteristic modesty with food. The owl did  _ not  _ respect his food, and proceeded to ruin what was left of his breakfast.

Tom opened the letter, and stared at the words on the page with a sense of isolating dread he knew would end poorly. 

_ I know you have a Hogsmeade trip. I want to meet you. I can come to Hogwarts if you can’t. _

_ Hogs Head Inn. 11:30. _

It wasn’t a request. It was a threat.

_ P.S. What is your favourite sweet? _

* * *

The morning of the Hogsmeade visit dawned bright but windy. After breakfast, Tom qued in line before Filch, who matched their names to the long list of students who had permission from their guardian to visit the village. It was a kind mercy that Crina had obliged months ago, although this was the first time Tom had used said privilege.

Tom barely cast an eye to the caretaker, walking through the tall stone pillars topped with winged boars. He turned left onto the road that led into the village, the wind tugging on his scarf and making his ears burn.

It was still early, before other students would begin to filter down to enjoy their day. Tom’s brain felt far too aware, a live wire that stung and pulsed at every flick of stimuli. He hadn’t taken as much a dosage of Dreamless Sleep that night, terrified that he’d accidentally manage a drop too much and slumber through his forced meeting. Instead, he stay awake in a nauseous sweating bundle. Far too jittery and anxious to ever consider sleeping well. His head screamed at him like a mandrake. 

The sunlight didn’t help. The nausea returned, a low dreadful twist in his gut that made his nose burn like acid. He hadn’t vomited, but he felt close to.

He kept walking until he managed to the outskirts of Hogsmeade. His leg felt odd, bare and stiff without the normally reassuring brace of the cilice. Moments of doubt chased away by biting metal. He missed it, the sharp pricks of courage he relied on when frozen stiff.

The main street of Hogsmeade was opening up, people rushing and bustling about for lunch and tea. It wasn’t even nine in the morning yet, but Tom was determined to get out of sight far before anyone could see what he had stumbled into. The earlier the better, the less eyes the better.

The main street of Hogsmeade had a few stores he recognized. A post office with owls readying themselves to fly away. A Joke shop stood proud on the corner. Slowly, Tom turned up a side street leading up a small hill. At the top of which stood a small in. A battered wooden sign hung from a rusty bracket over the door; it detailed a wild boar’s severed head drooling blood onto the white cloth around it.

The sign creaked as he walked under it, pressing the door open quietly before slipping inside.

There was nobody inside, and great reason for it. The Hog’s Head bar was a single small, dingy room that smelled strongly of livestock. The rank stink of animal sweat, the one accompanying goats and sheep. The bay windows were so dirty that the daylight outside could not break through. The room smelled of dust, lit by stumpy candles blazed sleepily. Tom could not imagine a man of any standings ever setting foot inside such a...filthy place. Doge had thought this out well.

The barman appeared, throwing a single judging eye over Tom. Tom had been careful to not wear any sort of clothing broadcasting his status as a student. Even his scarf was a simple dark blue weave. Nothing associated with houses of Hogwarts. His cloak was old, dark and normal. Nothing odd, but still he could not help the suspicion churning in his stomach.

The barman was a grumpy looking older man. Old enough that he may have been around when Tom attended Hogwarts for the first time. Perhaps that was why he seemed distantly familiar.

“What?” The man grunted, frowning at Tom. It was so early, he didn’t expect any visitors yet. 

“I’m here to meet someone.” Tom said, voice a silent whisper before cracking audibly into words. The man didn’t seem that surprised, but he did have the briefest flash of disgust. Age, Tom learned, only bothered the cowardly. There was no disguise over what Tom was summoned here for. If he looked for it, perhaps he would see pity in the barman’s eyes.

“Right.” The man said, “upstairs first door on the left. Rented all day.”

Tom hoped with all his heart, he would not be trapped here that long.

Tom entered the room, small, nondescript. Clean in an unused sort of way. There was a basin of water to the side, an accompanying pitcher filled to the brim. A nice thought, since there was no loo attached to the door. 

The bed creaked as Tom sat down and waited. He stared at the clock, one so obscured by grime he used his sleeve to clean it enough to see the minute hands. He had two hours before he would meet his party. The room had been paid in advance, Tom wouldn’t be surprised if it was anonymous. Unknown, a fake name. Another notch on the bedpost and a line in a ledger.

Merlin what was he  _ doing.  _ He felt- he felt like a  _ cheap whore.  _ Told when to arrive, told when to leave. Meeting in places so filthy he didn’t trust to drink from the glasses. His thighs itched and he was pressing firm into the scabbed skin there, wishing beyond words for the little pin-pricks that would chase away the anxiety and let him  _ bloody think.  _ His sores were bothering him, itching and gross with that wet oily sheen that pimples left behind. He would have to deal with that soon- likely a side effect of the Dreamless Sleep Potions. His headaches, the nausea and the slight confusion and disorientation. He’d have to deal with it; he could find other potions that wouldn’t interact so badly like the Calming Draught did...

The doorknob rattled. One hour and forty seven minutes early. Tom had wanted  _ more time-. _

“You’re early.” Doge said, sounding positively delighted in that sick predatory way Tom recognized. Doge didn’t look surprised, he looked...normal. Shockingly normal, a bland overcoat, slightly muddy shoes. He had trimmed his beard recently, getting rid of any scruff but the shadow was starting to ghost in. He looked like a standard unnoticeable person, perhaps that was why he seemed so monstrous.

Tom shrunk back ever so slightly, staring at the ticking clock. He didn’t want to see Doge’s eyes. He didn’t want to see and evaluate that gleam, or figure out how dangerous this encounter was. He could survive this, then he could deal with Crina. Have her sort things out, perhaps change where he was residing and get out of the Country. Escape from this- this hellish-.

Tom flinched unwillingly as a hand gripped his neck, sliding down his throat stiffly until it rested slightly under the collar of his robe. Tom inhaled through his nose. The clock ticked slowly.

He wanted to leave. He wanted to bolt out the door, but he couldn’t. Tom had nothing but a bad reputation already working against him. Who was he, a poor orphan boy with no money and no family.

To those who  _ knew,  _ he was the budding  _ He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.  _

To those who knew  _ him,  _ he was  _ He-Who-Has-No-Name. _

Doge’s hand slipped further down Tom’s collar.

“Don’t be nervous.” Doge said, prattling on other gentle complements Tom was not foolish enough to listen to. Tom ignored him, stiff and unwilling even as blunt nails dug in hard around his collarbone. A painful handle, jerking him bodily. His thighs stung.

“I even got you Acid Pops.” Doge frowned in mock concern, “oh, you neglected little thing. Don’t worry, I wanted to surprise you so I arrived a bit ahead of schedule.”

_ Bite me,  _ Tom thought. He wanted to chew Doge’s throat and tear the damned thing out. Leave him sprawled and  _ undignified  _ over a grimy bar’s bed. Let him-.

Tom choked and yelped a bit at the unexpected manhandling. The mattress creaked and the covers felt itchy on his spine and shoulder blades. Tom’s jaw locked, his protests and hisses muted by Acid Pops gagging back his venom.

“Don’t worry,” Doge shushed him, mistaking his snarls for something more innocent. Or, perhaps, Doge heard him and smiled all the same. “I’ll take care of you now.”

_ I hope you choke,  _ Tom thought viciously, cruelly. Fending off hysteria and that raw animal panic and  _ pain _ \- Oh Lord it hurt.

Tom blinked back the tears welling in the corner of his eyes. For a brief moment, he smelled the pungent incense from a thurible; Tom felt the burning of herbs lashed tightly to the bleeding whip lines across his skin.

_ “From their callous hearts come inquiry!”  _ Tom remembered the priest saying, shoving hard where Doge did- Tom bit through his lip not to scream. It had been hard to breathe through the Frankincense, it was hard to breathe now. _ “Their evil imaginations have no limits!” _

Doge smiled, cooing and coaxing more bloodshed and hatred. 

Tom gazed through tears and snarled around acid candy, and thought whole and faithfully to the Lord-

_ I pray I cut your heart out. _

* * *

Fred and George were rather proud of themselves. They had managed a great array of impressive tasks before, messing with Snape generally, but  _ this  _ was well done.

Hermione leapt as soon as Fred casually mentioned that Harry was entirely agreeable with the idea of extra teaching lessons.

Hermione, in her naturally organized nature, casually compiled a massive list of individual students and possible locations. Fred and George, having memorized every rule in Hogwarts by their first year, double checked and assured that the Hog’s Head  _ was  _ open to students. People just generally avoided it given that it looked like somewhere you’d pick up pneumonia.

After Hemione made her list, Fred and George casually scouted the entire castle and updated every student who had been wanting remedial lessons to the specific date at hand. Soon, they had an assortment of students marching throughout Hogsmeade, trying to convene in one very small pub just before noon.

Butterbeers sorted out, Harry stood and gave a very inspiring speech and by that it was _not_ very inspiring and Hermione took over. The facts stood at the end of the day, that Ginny Weasley had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets and Harry brought her back. Harry Potter entered the Triwizard Tournament and _survived_ when an older student, _hadn’t (_ although the reasoning for how Cedric died was still a hot topic of debate.)

Harry and Malfoy’s feud was well known throughout the castle, enough that even the younger skeptic students admitted that Harry likely knew and used more useful charms.

Everything was sorted out, a long charmed parchment of names was folded up and stored by Hermione, now secretary of their little club, and everyone was on their way.

“All in all, a bloody good day.” Fred whistled, stretching his arms. George couldn’t help but agree, until Fred patted his pockets and cursed loudly.

“My damned scarf!” Fred bemoaned, “I must have left it back at the pub!”

“Well why did you do that?”

“The Butterbeers were cold! I had to carry them, not like you did much!”

“Ah, that is where you’re wrong, my dear brother.  _ I  _ supplied the artistic touches to our humble pub.”

Through bickering, they casually redirected themselves and started down back towards the pub. It wasn’t that big of a detour- mum would kill them if they lost her knitting. Not to mention she’d wonder  _ wear  _ they lost it, and that wasn’t a debate they were willing to have.

Fred slipped through the door, moving instantly towards the back corner where his scarf wrapped around the back of the chair. Exactly where he left it. George couldn’t help but grin, waving coy at the barman who looked resigned to their presence once again.

“Don’t mind us!” Fred said jauntily, “just forgot something! We’ll be on our way!”

“Wonderful place you have,” George added, “mind if we come back more oft-  _ Tom?” _

Tom Riddle, looking startled and slightly frozen stood on the stairwell behind the bar. He looked...thoroughly surprised and a bit uncertain as to why the Twins were there.

“Why are  _ you  _ here?” Tom asked, voice slightly hoarse and quiet.

“Us? Why are  _ you  _ here?”

The barman noticed the increasing tension and grumbled quietly, fishing for a rag and a glass that needed cleaning. Tom looked pale, unsettled and more like a skittish deer than a student who had bloody  _ cursed Harry. _

Fred and George didn’t... _ like  _ Tom, but they didn’t dislike him either.  _ He  _ wasn’t the one to hurt their sister, he was just a (surprisingly funny) normal bloke that apparently had been upstairs in the Hogs Head for hours.

“How long have you been here?” Fred gaped in surprise. “We were- we had a club meeting here for an hour! Have you been here all morning?”

Tom’s eyes flickered around the pub, taking in the various people looking very interested with the display. The twins recognized how this was a poor location for a scene, and quietly stepped back towards the main door.

Tom’s eyes flickered to the door. They were bloodshot slightly, glassy.

Tom made his way very slowly across the pub, moving in what looked like a stiff carefully controlled walk.

_ You see this?  _ Fred’s wide eyes told George. He nodded ever so slightly.

They exited the pub, the wind caught Tom off guard. Tom had a normal scarf, a simple knit-purl-knit in dark blue. It was wound around his throat tightly, looped over and over.

“You alright there mate?” Fred asked, forcing his tone to be light. There was nothing casual about this. 

George thought quickly. Had Tom been buying firewhiskey? Buying dark artifacts? Buying  _ drugs?  _

“Fine.” Tom clipped out shortly. He was walking oddly, stiff with the smallest moments of hesitation. A small limp, the tight wound scarf-.

“No bloody way!” Fred barked out in alarm, face twisting in delight. “You dog!”

“No,” George gasped, catching on immediately, “ _ no-  _ well, I reckon the hospital wing is a bit tricky to manage. Better than a broom closet here, eh?”

Tom froze, turning into a petrified shadow of himself. Likely the embarrassment of being caught. The scarf likely was hiding marks of his  _ snogging.  _ With how close the teachers were always watching him, the best Tom could do would sneak away to Hogsmeade.

“Look at you,” Fred snickered, patting Tom’s shoulder. Tom flinched back, jerking at the contact. Shy after being caught most likely. “So proud, little Tommy sneaking away to dirty pubs-.”

“-coping a feel with almost-melted candles-.”

“ _ Stop.”  _ Tom said, a low hoarse hiss. He didn’t flush, instead he just looked tired and pale. The limp was suggestive, Fred had to bite his lower lip to not grin.

“Sure sure, anything you want.” George obliged, trying not to giggle, “oh! Heard from Harry you like Acid Pops. Managed to get a haul from Honeydukes since Halloween, you want us to bring them to your room or…”

Tom leaned away, looking slightly green. “No. I...I’ve lost my taste for Acid Pops. What were you talking about for that club. Teaching yourself Defense classes?”

Fred and George shrugged, eyeing Tom with a small speculative look. They chose the Hog's Head because they didn't think, ironically, anyone would be there. They hadn't expected _Tom_ to be up in the rooms above the main floor.They had wanted to make the club for the sole purpose of defending themselves against people  _ like  _ Tom. That wasn’t entirely fair though, Tom obviously came from a war period and likely knew how to fend off bigger threats. Tom wasn’t on anyone's side, which meant he had two fights battling at once.

“I heard your inspirational speech.” Tom said tiredly, “seems Hogwarts has been busy.”

“Just Harry, mostly.” Fred said. “Why, do you want in?”

Tom paused, staring down the road. It was windy, his scarf refused to budge. Tom scratched his right thigh over his cloak, firmly with claws pulling tiny tears into the cloak. Bugger of an itch.

“...No.” Tom said finally. “I’m...confident, in my own spellwork. Let me know if you’re learning anything  _ actually  _ useful.”

That was the closest to a nice Tom they’d get. The less he knew, the less trouble they’d get in. It was the best of both worlds.

“Sure thing.” Fred nodded, giving one more friendly shoulder pat to the younger boy. Tom said nothing else. Fred and George watched Tom walk slowly all the way down the main road of Hogsmeade back to the castle, until he walked out of their sight.


	14. ex post facto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Dreams are fickle things, and too many people are crammed in a small mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, Chapter 15 (the next one) is the official halfway point where the story starts to shift into the second arc.  
> I hope you enjoy!

Harry hadn’t felt happier in a long while. The day was bright and new, sunny and cozy in the Gryffindor Common rooms. For the first time in a long while, he was ahead on his homework. Ron, who was of course not up to date on his homework, was scribbling away madly on the coffee table. Hermione had taken to bringing her knitting needles with her, clacking gently as she spooled more yellow thread between her fingers and wove it between her needles. Already she was a fair ways through another scarf, this one decorated with rows of alternating bumps and stripes.

“You’re getting fast at that,” Harry remarked, finding the steady rhythm soothing to watch. “I thought you normally bewitched your needles?”

“Oh, I do!” Hermione said, looking almost embarrassed with herself. Her hands stopped moving, the taught yarn going slack in her hesitation. “I ah, I’m not the best with my hands! It’s so much easier to bewitch needles, why, Molly showed me a wonderful technique the other summer…”

“That’s pretty brilliant.” Harry admitted, looking at the scarf curiously, “a different sort of row now, eh?”

“Yes!” Hermione enthused, “I was in the library the other day, reading about the Egyptian expeditions when I ran into Tom, or rather he stumbled upon me and-.”

“What?” Ron asked, finally hearing what they were discussing, “Riddle  _ knits?” _

Hermione huffed softly. “Normally I’d argue about selective hearing, but shockingly,  _ yes.  _ Tom stumbled on my work and critiqued my knitting, took my needles and started knitting himself.”

Harry stared, unable to remove the blatant shock on his face. “He... _ knits?” _

“Yes Harry,” Hermione now looked a bit upset. “It’s not uncommon, back then it was mandatory for children to knit for the army. Knit two, purl one.”

“I dunno what that is, but why were you bloody talking to  _ Riddle!” _

“I wasn't! I was knitting!” Hermione defended, now looking upset with how the conversation and the good mood had fallen apart. “He came over and showed me how to purl properly!”

“Because of course  _ Riddle  _ has to show you-.”

‘Ron!” Hermione shouted, throwing her needles and yarn onto the table. Her eyes were suspiciously wet in her frustration. Harry understood it; Tom Riddle wasn’t always a cause of aggression and it was incredibly frustrating to treat him as such. Harry had no doubts the boy had ulterior motives, but he  _ had  _ simply joined Hermione and shown her how to knit by hand more effectively. A rather noble gesture considering Hemione’s devotion to her house elf cause.

The cheery day came to an abrupt halt the moment they noticed a small group of people gathered around the Gryffindor notice board. The announcement was so large, it covered everything else on there- the list of secondhand books for sale, the regular reminders, the Quidditch team schedule, and the Weasley’s advertisement for new testers. The new sign was printed in large black letters that looked similar to the wanted posters decorating official ministry areas.

“The hell?” Someone said, scowling at the board angrily. “Bloody Educational Decree Number Twenty-four? That bitch can’t even count that high…”

“Oh no,” Hermione said, looking at the notice with obvious terror. “The removal of all meetings? No more Organization, Teams, Groups, or Clubs?”

“Like  _ that’s  _ going to hold.” Someone else muttered, although in the back Angelina was rather viciously cursing about Quidditch.

The happiness that had filled them vanished. Even Hermione’s hurt feelings were washed away by the anxiety and nervous tightening of her gut.

“This isn’t a coincidence,” Harry said, his hands curled into a fist. “She knows. Someone ratted.”

“She can’t know.” Hermione said instantly. ‘Trust me, nobody ratted.”

“We made sure of it too,” Fred piped up, sliding on over to stand conspiringly close to the trio. “Spread some nasty rumors-.”

“-that we’d be ruddy mad if anyone spilled.” George added with a well meaning look. “We think that bitch had spies everywhere.”

Hermione scoffed angrily. No doubt thinking of the illegality of that.

“Anyways,” Fred said, nodding to the board, “that went up last night. Saw it, Filch looked pretty pleased.”

Ron didn’t looked pleased at that. 

“What do you know?” Harry asked, “Is it because of…”

He let the sentence hang, everyone understanding implicitly what wasn’t stated.

“Likely so.” Fred said with a sad look, “we’re trying to learn more.”

Ron’s eyebrows lifted. “ _ More?  _ How the bloody-.”

“We’ve got our own spy.” George sniffed, “taking one for the now illegal team. Meeting with the queen bitch herself, seeing if he can weasel some information out of her.”

Hermione instantly paled. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, we did.” Fred sighed dramatically. “Who else has a bigger ego and issues with authority?”

“ _ Tom?”  _ Harry gaped, “ _ Tom  _ is going to meet with  _ Umbridge?” _

“Willingly too,” George added casually, “mighty surprised by that one. Had questions for that stern teacher of his.”

Crina? Tom was going to Umbridge with questions about Cri-.

Oh, oh  _ no.  _ Umbridge had clearly known Crina, at least in name. She had claimed many things, generally shaking the foundations of what Harry knew of the woman. It was rational that Tom would investigate further- pushing past to see exactly Crina was under arrest for. Harry had no doubts that the arrest was fake anyways, but Umbridge seemed cocky enough to want to share information regarding her.

Umbridge was...a source of information, but she was a  _ bad source,  _ one that had no issues with giving out punishment that- according to Fred and George verged on the painful side. Even Tom’s supposed religious self injury wouldn’t hold up.

* * *

Tom stepped into the office and didn’t blink. The walls were painted a horrible shade, the exposed stone filled with plaster to deceive the eye into a softer look. Dozens of embroidered cats peered out from little wooden frames, watching him with slit eyes and cruel expressions. Of course, embroidery tended to be too crude to capture the true details necessary for an enchanted portrait. For a subject such as an animal, the amount of detail was no longer needed, and the legalities behind paintings no longer applied. Intelligent way to work around that, and still spy on all visitors.

“Thank you so much for allowing me to meet with you, High Inquisitor Umbridge.” Tom said smoothly and calmly. He took the seat offered across from her desk, the plump cushions sunk around him until his feet were unable to touch the floor. It was unnervingly well done. “I understand your schedule is terribly full, I am incredibly grateful for your accommodations.”

Professor Umbridge smiled, waddling to her seat before settling down daintily. The cats behind her meowed curiously. She pulled out a miniature tea set from her side cupboard, a similar design to that which Tom distantly recalled Abraxas flourishing many years ago. Pureblood memorabilia, showing wealth and high class.She would be similar to Professor Slughorn then.

“Oh, it was nothing.” Professor Umbridge tittered, sprinkling salt and chocolate powder all throughout her tea. Tom’s nose didn’t wrinkle. He heard that the Russians put jam in their tea and coffee. “I always have time for the concerned students of this great facility.”

Interesting play on words. Rudimentary, see through. Viewing Hogwarts only as an establishment to produce results, not education. After having discussions with Crina, Umbridge was a roe deer of intelligence and a dumb one at that.

“A service we are incredibly grateful for.” Tom continued, pausing to take a small sip of his tea. A fancy brand, tainted with too much honey. “Your aid to our educational achievement is unsurmounted.”

Umbridge looked pleased, but also a bit perplexed. Tom saw her eyes flicker over his uniform, the bland unimportant appearance that lacked any tie in particular. Tom  _ did  _ have one, but the plain black stood out more than anything else. By wearing no tie at all, she could presume it to be laziness or forgetfulness instead of no house allegiance.

“Yes well, I do my best.” Umbridge smiled, fake and far too sweet. “Ignore my rudeness, would you enjoy some cake? A tart perhaps?”

Tom couldn’t throw in a word before a house elf appeared with a small tray of cookies with lacy designs. Umbridge plucked one, nibbling on it daintily. “Now, what appears to be the problem?”

“I have been experiencing some...information barriers, much to my dismay.” Tom said, careful to accept a cookie and eat a small portion. Making sure they appeared on equal footing. “The teachers here are... _ reluctant  _ to aid in my education.”

Umbridge hummed in understanding, “ah yes, the professors here  _ are  _ rather...liberal with their beliefs.”

_ “Exactly,”  _ Tom stressed, careful with his movements. “I’ve been hopeful that perhaps a staff member would aid me in my ventures.”

Umbridge looked passive, humming as she took a sip. Tom knew that this would be the careful moment, the small slip that would determine how the conversation would progress.

“I’ve been quite fascinated by the Ministry of Magic and the associative organizations, especially since our OWLS are so soon and our scores determine our future.” Tom said very cautiously, “in fact, I’ve found myself quite... _ stuck  _ with future professions. It seems Hogwarts isn’t helpful with discussing the Ministry.”

Careful, any further prompting would shift from casual into serious, and from there Umbridge would be far too paranoid. Shifting the blame to Hogwarts created a new target, a new aggressor to bond over. Umbridge was no different than a faceless matron, or a priest looking for a victim of sin. He could twist them until they sang what he wanted, he could make her cooperate as well.

“Yes yes, what filth.” Umbridge sniffed disgusted, “casting aside the helpful eye of the Ministry. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if this entire staff team were found incompetent.”

Careful, ever so careful. Pushing the blame too far would inspire a furious fit where Umbridge went to fire everyone. Deflecting too many people would alert her that Tom truly didn’t care.

“I’ve mostly looked to see how the British Ministry handles foreign power, especially with the close quarters last year with the Triwizard Tournament,” Tom said, despising that of all time periods he had missed such a large event by less than half a year. “It seems so odd to cave to the whims of lesser foreign powers. I was wondering if perhaps Hogwarts has a European educational alliance?”

They didn’t, except the international board of education which Crina served. Tom, through her, submitted his own tests and results directly to the international registry. Dumbledore and other faculty gave updates, but since Tom had not selected to enroll in Umbridge's lessons, she would have no way to know that.

“Those are all quite good questions, yes...I should look into that internship for that bright few Ravenclaw Seventh Years…” Umbridge mused, fingers tapping on her cup, “what was your name?”

“Riddle, ma’am.” Tom said respectfully. “Tom Riddle. I didn’t know the Ministry offers internships.”

“Only to those with proper aptitude.” Umbridge smiled thinly, “the role of the Ministry is quite important. It has seats available to only the... _ brightest  _ minds, yes?”

_ The purest, you mean.  _ Tom mentally corrected, already trying to calculate in Professor Umbridge’s apparent blood supremacy. Tom could bluff, but without any sort of backing, he would be claiming a title that she could easily check. Unless there was a reason  _ why  _ he couldn’t explain…

“Ah, that’s very wise of the Ministry, I had no idea…” Tom trailed off, mentally counting two seconds before continuing on, “forgive my ignorance. I was...not given proper educations of such things.”

“Mmm.” Umbridge eyed him with beady eyes. “Muggleborn then, yes?”

“Halfblood, I believe.” Tom said, trying to focus as much false emotion into making his acting convincing, “illegitimate. I’m quite sorry but I believe I’m not legally permitted to state my family name until I am of age. I’m sure you understand.”

Umbridge’s eyes looked slightly more greedy. Only the more powerful Pureblood houses would have such laws- Abraxas and Cygnus had explained the events of illegitimate children quite happily back then. Under those assumptions, Umbridge could no longer look up his family history, but assumed he was related to a wealthy or affluent name.  _ Checkmate. _

“Ah, yes of course.” Umbridge nodded readily, taking a sip of her tea. “Oh! Your question, yes. The British Ministry of Magic and department of Education is independent of all foreign bodies, with the exception of the International Committee of Education-.”

“I wasn’t aware that such a thing existed.” Tom interrupted smoothly. “How unfortunate.”

“Very.” Umbridge agreed. “Quite messy, all rude with how they-  _ intrude  _ on other’s business…” Umbridge sniffed sourly, looking quite peeved.

_ ‘Gotcha’  _ Tom thought victoriously, playing with the handle on his tea cup. “Forgive my boldness- but has this...committee, intruded on Hogwarts? I could have  _ sworn  _ I saw the Headmaster talking with this...foreign woman…” Tom trailed off, counting to three this time. “Ah, forgive my tangent.”

“Oh no, by all means continue.” Umbridge beckoned, “a foreign woman you say?”

“With the most horrid fur coat.” Tom said, trying his hardest not to look at anything pink in the office, “absolutely disgusting wardrobe.”

A cat meowed behind Umbridge, she looked quite pleased. “Ah yes. I know such woman. The worst of them. Crina Dimitriu, a truly monstrous woman.”

“Crina Dimitriu…” Tom let the name fumble around his tongue, throwing in the slightest burr of old Cockney accent to make it appear more unfamiliar. “That name...sounds familiar.”

“She has made quite a name for herself.” Professor Umbridge looked outright irritated by the thought, “performing such  _ disgusting  _ experiments- why, she’s gone and gained glory through discussion with  _ freaks and _ -...”

“Surely Hogwarts could not have…” Tom paused, letting surprise and shock paint his face, “not- not  _ Hogwarts…” _

“Oh Merlin no, Durmstrang brood that filth.” Umbridge sniffed angrily. “Do let me know if you ever see her again, yes Tom?”

“Of  _ course  _ Professor Umbridge.” Tom smiled, nodding pleasantly. “I don’t mean to keep you all day-.”

“Oh, not at all.” The woman near beamed, waving him on joyously, “return if you have any questions.”

Truly, what a vile toad of a woman. Tom couldn’t be more happy to slip out of the room, now having an idea of where to search. The Triwizard Tournament was linked between Durmstrange, and Beauxbatons. Both schools had an ample history- one that, with some research, could be uncovered. Hogwarts had its own old roster, and if Tom was lucky perhaps that year would have a tournament in which every student would be recorded within Hogwarts’ library.

Until then, he had an idea of where to go and where to look. That, and Umbridge didn’t seem too offended by his mere presence.

Tom made it to the main landing, waiting for the moving staircases when a portrait started shouting at him. “Hey! Hey kid! You- yes, yes  _ you!” _

Tom looked at it, considered if it was worth it, and ultimately ignored it.

“Oi! No, look at me!” The portrait shouted. A rather annoyed looking man waved a spoon threateningly. The three puppies gnawing on a loaf of bread- the original occupants of the frame, looked at the spoon the man was holding with obvious glee.

“Oh, shite-” the man cursed, hurling the spoon. All at once, the three puppies took off, running through attached paintings and nearly knocking one opera singer off her stage. “Boy! Look at me! The Headmaster has summoned you!”

“I don’t especially care,” Tom informed the painting calmly. “Perhaps you should use that spoon to beckon someone else who does.”

The man gaped, and Tom began to climb the stairs.

He made it to the next clearing before the man appeared to gather help, this in the form of a detailed pack of lions gnawing on a zebra. A few choice words and gestures from his spoon-less hands, and the lions were roaring so loudly three clearings above Tom students were clutching their ears. The lions looked rather pleased when Tom admitted defeat and began the long stomp.

The stone gargoyle spotted Tom long before he was at the stairwell. The guard didn’t seem to care for a password; the moment Tom walked close it leapt aside and used one large feathered wing to try and herd him up it. As if he’d escape  _ now.  _

The gargoyle watched him manage the first few steps before it very hurriedly slid back into position, trapping Tom inside the spiral staircase. He wondered distantly what on earth the Headmaster has said to inspire such rapid paranoia, but he was far too petty and annoyed to ever reveal that curiosity. The fact he threw Dumbledore under Umbridge’s bloodhound nose would be enough amusement for a while.

When Tom reached the top of the stairwell, the door to Dumbledore’s office was already open. His room vacant with the exception of the large gorgeous Phoenix roosting high above the study. The tall skylights opened into what appeared to be an observatory long since forgotten, decorated with dozens of picture frames and the occasional bird perch.

The Phoenix tittered to him, waving its long tail feathers contently. Tom did his best to ignore such a thing, it reminded him of gemstones: the more you touch them to admire the more tarnished they become.

Sitting on Dumbledore’s desk was a stack of books. Each interesting in appearance, some leather and other thin wood. Tom knew it was not coincidence that such books were stacked within easy reach. It was not coincidence that the Phoenix watched him, likely to see if he stole something.

Perhaps another student would dismiss the bird’s eye, but Tom had long since learned the value of an animal companion. Their abilities and knowledge were often underestimated, it was far safer to treat the Phoenix as if it were a person.

Tom sat down on the stuffed chair, briefly entertaining the thought of stealing Dumbledore’s own more comfortable seat. He didn’t, because Merlin knew what caramel or lollies were hidden in the arm rest. The bird coaxed him with a chiming song, the books drove his curiosity wild but his patience long since won out.

He sat there calmly, choosing at some point to simply cross his knees and close his eyes. He could accomplish far more by napping then he ever could by staring down a magical chicken. Said chicken, made a noise of vague offense at his snoozing.

Eventually the door did open- likely when Dumbledore grew tired of Tom’s rebellious streak. It wasn’t often he managed to win, but he had likely counted on such a thing already.

“Hello Tom,” Dumbledore smiled, looking a bit tired under all the fake appearances. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

Tom yawned pointedly. The bird looked upset that Dumbledore had left it there alone for so long.

“Right, straight to the matter.” Dumbledore mused, walking calmly over his room with old soft leather shoes. The ground still creaked, purposefully Tom was sure. A subtle shift to try and cause him to relax. 

“I would greatly appreciate if you were to skim through these books here,” Dumbledore patted the top cover fondly, “and ah, perhaps mention if any strikes your interest.”

Tom looked at Dumbledore before he yawned again. “I decline.”

Dumbledore didn’t frown. “I insist. I believe these books contain many subjects you may be interested in.”

There was something in the phrasing that shifted the temperature of the room. The subconscious mention, the subtle play on words. Subjects that he  _ may be interested in.  _

“So that’s your angle.” Tom said flatly, unable to remove all the ice from his voice. “Using me now, I thought you had gone past that.”

“Tom-.”

“Tell me, Dumbledore.” Tom said in a low voice, nearly a mutter with how casual and distant he felt. “Are you looking for things  _ I  _ am interested in, or things I  _ was  _ interested in.”

Dumbledore’s face didn’t change. So his future self then.

Tom traced the cover of the top book. Knowing what sort of bastard Dumbledore was, there was no way to win this. Either he read and found something questionable that interested him, or he lied and implied that he was h trustworthy already. There would be no way to play this in his favour-

Unless he utilized a third party that had an equal grudge and managed to tease all the fields at once.

“Interesting idea of yours.” Tom said calmly, picking up the top book. It was never the top one- it would always be the second one. Where idiots placed the things they wanted people to see, but to hide the urgency in which they saw it. A leather cover, painted with fading ink over, if Tom was correct, actual human skin. Dumbledore was getting far too foreword in his age.

“Where was the professor who tried to give me detention for transfiguring a desk into a crocodile?” Tom said, clicking his tongue scolding.

“You know as well as I, that you were punished for attempting to have such transfiguration attack a classmate.” Dumbledore said.

Tom smiled thinly, distant in nostalgia. “Black had it coming, you know that as well. What  _ really  _ do you want me to see in here?”

Dumbledore didn’t wait this time. “Take a look, and tell me what it is.”

A bold play. Unfortunate that Tom always tried to stay ahead.

“I request my right to contact and meet with my mental health care provider?” Tom asked sweetly like acid pops, “you know, perhaps you’ve forgotten her Floo address?”

Dumbledore’s face stiffened like a rock. “I strongly advise against Crina Dimitriu being within Hogwarts at this time-.”

“Ah, Umbridge is causing a fit isn’t she?” Tom asked, eyes gleaming. Oh the hell Dumbledore would soon experience regarding Umbridge. “How convenient that Hogwarts allows students to leave for medical aid.”

Dumbledore looked at him. The Phoenix made such a sad song above.

“Alright, Tom.” Dumbledore said slowly, “you know as well as I how this will play out. Remember, all actions carry consequences we cannot foresee. You should do well to remember this, more than any other.”

An ominous reminder. Tom’s thigh itched and the human skin book felt clammy in his palms. A constant eye watching him- because he was a feral dog waiting to run wild with wolves and other beasts. Who knew what they would do if unguarded.

“I will allow you to meet at the current base of operations for a temporary amount of time,” Dumbledore said stonily, “and I will inform Crina of your request. You must return to the castle by nightfall, as well as that book-.”

“I know.” Tom said. “How else will you find your  _ secret weapon  _ that apparently  _ I  _ am going to use. Or, perhaps, you’ve forgotten that  _ I am not Voldemort.” _

Dumbledore looked at him sadly, and Tom wanted to scream.

Dumbledore flicked his wand, tapping a non discrete bronze globe that lowered the Floo wards. A small reminder, a pointed look-

“Nightfall, Tom.”

And with a rush of green fire, Tom was gone.

* * *

 

The tension was not gone between them. Tom knew that, as did Crina.

She looked better, healthier and well composed. Her famous thick wolf fur cloak was pulled off her shoulders to reveal a surprisingly modest outfit below. Trousers and a blouse, a rather progressive look for wizards, and Tom who still balked at the idea of women wearing  _ trousers. _

“I heard your call,” Crina said casually, settling on the couch. It felt like forever ago they were in this room. An entirely different life, when Crina was a stranger drinking wine from he Black Family cellar. It felt different, wrong and tainted. Strained.

“I was supposed to read this book, to find the section which, presumably, my ulterior self fixated upon.”

Crina’s eyes flickered to the book, barely hesitating before looking back at him. Her hair was done properly this time. Her makeup clean. She felt further away, distant behind it all. “Does that bother you? You’re an important resource.”

“I don’t like being  _ used.”  _ Tom said.

Crina nodded, eyes landing on the book curiously. “Take a look through it. Find what it is that draws your attention, and then I want to take you someplace. Irrelevant to what you find.”

Tom felt nervous at the thought. It felt like a trap- like something waiting for him to trigger it. At any moment, Mad-Eye Moody would run in and stun him, haul him off to Crina’s cells where his life’s ambition would be becoming wolf food.

But that wasn’t..right. That was the irrational leap of a tired overworked brain. He had a book, and he could read and think about its contents on his own.

It took a while, but Crina did not seem busy. She had her own work, papers and files that she sorted and wrote in at a pace Tom would find slow. He supposed, that her work had less room for error.

The book was...delightful. Horrible, vile but fascinating. Curses to boil all the blood in a body in an instant- the most powerful form of the curse he already knew. Potions to force the transformation of various dark creatures, from werewolves to bastets to even changelings. Curses to transplant organs by tearing them out, rituals to leap from body to body through a form of physical possession. Tom wanted to horde the book forever.

He stumbled over the chapter, the ritual which made his blood sing. Tom did not believe in fate, but the old yellow pages lured him in better than any siren. Sweeter than any love potion- it was liquid sleep woven in paper with promises of curing his every ailment.

_ Horcrux _ , the page said.  _ Splitting your soul. _

It detailed a ritual, violent and yet not. It was written as if the act of  _ something  _ was...a shock to the world. It did not  _ fit  _ with what Tom knew. What could possibly be so disgusting and revolting it defied nature and allowed you to split the bare essence of yourself? What  _ was yourself? _

The best belief, was that a soul contained every portion of who you were. Your mind, your memories, your emotions and aspirations. Your dreams, your personality- everything.

But...a  _ Horcrux.  _ You couldn’t die if you existed still, a paradox that made nature collapse on itself. Tom would be able to live.

He could survive by  _ tearing off half of himself _ .

The book had never specified which portion he could tear out. Could he alter it? Could he...pick?

Imagine, a world with no nightmares. No fear, or hunger, or shaking hands or memories uncontrollable behind his eyes. No more paranoia and anxiety, no rising stress or dependency on a potion which left him defenseless and weak.

A Horcrux, it would function far beyond its intended purpose. A Horcrux was made so it’s owner would live forever.

But Tom...a Horcrux for Tom, would ensure he would never  _ ever  _ die.

* * *

They appeared, standing on round river rock in the shade of sprawling leaves. Under an archway of floral vines and creeping fingers all hungry for sunlight. The sight already confused Tom, because it was nearing late November and yet the plants still grew tall. He would have thought the leaves would peel off, hanging naked and bare in the weather.

Yet, he noticed instantly how the temperature did not reflect that of the season. The slight haze clouding the distance, clear glass separating them from outside where acres of bare finger twigs hung on trellis waiting for the warmer spring.

“We are in Burgundy,” Crina told him, her voice distorting into a strange mixture of foreign language and her native accent. It created an interesting sound, inflections on vowels Tom wouldn't ever have expected. “East-central France. It is ah, famous, for pinot noirs.” 

Her lips quirked into a small smirk, an amused light burning behind the unassuming shades of her eyes. “And ah, Beaujolais, perhaps that is more to your taste?”

He didn’t rise to her gentle barb, instead he let his eyes roam over the shaded path of archways and expansive grape plants. They stood in the shadow of leaves, hidden from the migrating geese and glass walls above them. It was calm and private, the river rock soft and cool around his sock clad feet. It must have been quite a profitable vineyard to ever afford such a greenhouse.

“Why are we in a grape vineyard?” Tom asked bluntly; the portkey lasted so long that it had to be an international registry. Something not easily acquired, which meant that Crina was well accustomed to visiting this one vineyard in particular. He should have expected it, that she’d go to terrible lengths to hop over to a  _ wine business  _ at her leisure.

“To teach,” Crina responded simply, almost taunting. “We are not in season but I believe you have things to learn in light of your actions.”

His actions, of hospitalizing Harry Potter. Tom felt his skin flush hotly in response. A rage burned at his neck and his tongue itched to spit venom. It was the knowing look on Crina’s face as the older woman walked to one of the trellises, tenderly caressing the wood, that stopped him.

“It is a beautiful thing,” Crina spoke reverently, going so far as to gently lift the leaves back into their ornate braid along the wooden frame. “Wine, and vineyards. A balance few know. It is…” She trailed off, mouth twitching once more in amusement, “much like people. Simpler, but still people.”

Tom rolled his eyes and walked over, trying not to bristle as she ignored him in favour of caressing her damned plants.

“Look here.” She pointed to one leaf, along the underside.

Much to his surprise, clinging to the lightly furry surface was a large, ornate beetle. It was white with silvery points, a gorgeous carapace made of woven silvery fibers arranged like fine lace. It resembled a praying mantis, long barbed legs with clawed hooks and scarlet eyes atop its ornate head. Tom wondered how such a thing could possibly manage its way inside the glass walls. Another mystery, like how Crina could bear to wear that thrice damned fur coat in such a high synthetic temperature.

“How I love and hate these little creatures,” Crina sighed fondly, stroking one of her fingers along its shell. It flailed its little legs, twisting its head around in a dumb instinctual movements. “They are scaraboris. Little scarabs.” She grimaced, then shifted into a fond smile, “the bane of vineyards.”

Tom didn’t understand why they were there. The air was too floral and the start of a headache were tickling behind his eyes. Nothing new, he got headaches often now anyways.

“These little insects will destroy this entire vineyard by next season.” She said. “And by the following, all the neighboring vineyards will be destroyed as well. These little beasts are magic, you see, and muggles for all their good wine know nothing of these monsters.”

Crina slowly set the leaf back in place, rotating her body to look at Tom fully. “Do you believe we should stop them? They are repelled by a grass easy to come by.”

Tom looked at her incomprehensible. “You brought me here, to do  _ pest control?” _

“No.” She said, rolling her eyes ever so slightly. “I brought you because I am curious what you think.”

Tom stared at her, she traced the leaves hanging low once more. Some were beginning to bud small fruit.

“These beasts are ravenous,” Crina explained politely. “They suck the juice from plants and destroy thousands of vineyards a year. Magical, but muggles know not how to beat them back. They sit, and wait for ruin unknowing if their home and life will succumb next to a small problem.”

“And here we are,” Crina used her hand to beckon to the both of them. “Able to prevent such a disaster, yet I never would. The moment I ceased these little Scarabis, I would always claim this vineyard as  _ mine,  _ and although I do not own it, I would become protective of it.”

Tom didn’t like the way Crina’s words sunk into his skin. “You see, Tom. Perhaps I  _ can  _ prevent this vineyard from collapsing, but I choose not to. If I did not visit today, it would have collapsed on its own. My intervention only changed what would have naturally occurred, this does not involve  _ me,  _ until I make it so.”

Her eyes were sharp, and she began to pluck at the artistic laces around the collar of her shawl. “My venture in life is to accept the disasters that come, even if I could have prevented such, because it is not my job nor my duty. I am not responsible for the fate of others, despite what I could have done. It is a tiring thing, to know what is and is not your fault, but I remind myself of these Scaribis and I know my place.”

Crina finally untied the laces, managing to pull the collar of her shirt low; dipping below the collarbone on her left side until the inked visage of an insect came into view. Lacy white, delicate with a crimson head and the capability of ruining lives.

“I have this to remind myself I could have prevented many disasters,” Crina informed him gently, “but I know for my own mind, I never will. Perhaps I am selfish, but I always view my own health and life more important than the health of those a stranger.”

Tom swallowed a thick lump in his throat. “Are you telling me to  _ not  _ meddle with the timeline? To  _ not  _ help with- with the fact I am a  _ monster.” To not tell Dumbledore about the Horcruxes? _

“I am telling you, to prioritize your life over millions of people who have problems unrelated to you.” Crina interrupted, lacing the collar of her shirt up once again now that the tattoo was no longer on display. “If you would give consent, I would like to offer one of my abilities.”

Tom’s breathing was shaky but he gave a jerky nod to demand more information.

“The methods of mind magics is rather...unstudied.” Crina began with an air of disgust, “the methods of  _ psychology  _ even lesser. I can work for all my life, years or decades to instill faith of your own image, only two comments to unravel my work like a flimsy sweater. It is...archaic, to use words to undo bias on your mind.”

“What do you suggest instead?” Tom asked sharply, spitting the words defensively.

“I am a master in the art of possession, yet not in the way most believe the art to be.” she dismissively flicked one hand, “may I have consent, to enter your mind, to permit you to view the world with my bias?”

Tom stared. She stared back.

“Possession is to take control of another person.” Tom stupidly countered.

“No,” Crina shook her head with a huff, “possession is to impose your mind on another. I have learned how to leave autonomy, but assist in my own thoughts and perceptions through another’s senses. You would retain full control, but feel and know how I interpret and view what you think of as unimportant.”

Tom’s face twitched, “that is entirely asinine. It wouldn’t accomplish  _ anything.” _

Crina’s mouth twitched into an all knowing grin. “Aren’t you curious, Tom Riddle, to see how others see  _ you?” _

* * *

__

_ A curious child, a beast in the making but no more of a monster than that a wild animal. Treasured, precious. Something to adore and study because for everything Tom was, he was a chance unlikely to ever occur again.  _

_ An opportunity in the flesh, a single spark in a field of boredom that could revolutionize the world. Change it on its axis, create something so unquestionably raw. _

_ She adored him, praised him like one would a dragon. Of course she was afraid of him, but everyone feared another because people had a predisposition to hurt others. It was only logical that she fear him, because Tom Riddle could hurt others like nothing she had ever seen. _

_ She wanted to nurture him, coax him down the path of his own making. Either salvation or ruin she did not care, she simply wanted to see what he would do next. _

* * *

“Okay.” Tom said, brain feeling so horribly overwhelmed and buzzing bright with light and  _ knowledge.  _ “What do you know about Horcruxes?”

* * *

The Quidditch team was reformed, thanks to Angelina having a riveting discussion with Professor McGonnagall, who in turn went to Dumbledore.

It was a welcome relief, to have that sort of permission back. Despite Umbridge’s best effort, she wasn’t able to take away the school’s proudest sport.

It was a foggy cold day when Harry keeled, hissing out in pain as his scar throbbed. It seared sharply, burning more painful than it had in months.

“What’s up?” Several voices said, looking quite alarmed by Harry’s sudden pain.

“Nothing,” Harry muttered, wincing as his head continued to pulse angrily. The many eyes staring at him didn’t help either.

His ears rang distantly. His dismissal obviously wasn’t the best, since Neville hurried to help him into a seated position. Harry was lucky he was in the common room at the time. 

“I’ll uh, go grab Ron.” Neville stuttered, hurrying off frantically towards the boy’s dorms. Lavender was whispering loudly, eyeing Harry with blatant worry. That was nice of her.

The more Harry thought, the more filtered broken images started to come to his mind. It hurt, because...because he was  _ angry. _

Tom though? or...Or was it  _ him?  _ Where had Tom run off to- was he hurt or in danger or…

No, Voldemort was angry. He knew that without being able to explain how he knew. Voldemort, wherever he was, was in a towering temper.

Ron appeared, looking pale and nervous. “Is it…”

Harry managed a single nod, groaning at the vertigo that spiked after his sudden movement. “Yeah.”

Harry closed his eyes, trying to still the swaying of the world. The more he let his brain relax, the more he began to feel the after-memory filter through. An echo, or an ink impression seeping through the darkness. A confused tangle of shapes, a howling rush of voices…

“He wants something done, and it’s not happening fast enough,” he said.

Again, Harry couldn’t explain the words coming out of his mouth, but they were all true.

“But...how do you know?” said Ron.

Little stars erupted behind Harry’s eyelids, dawning from the abrupt pressure his palms pressed with.

Ron looked in awe, gazing at Harry impressed. “Bloody hell, you’re  _ reading You-Know-Who’s-Mind.” _

“I’m not.” Harry snapped out irritably, “it’s...it’s more like sensing his mood. Same with Tom.”

“Blimey,” Ron breathed, “can you do it on command? Like when you made Riddle shiv himself?”

_ Probably.  _ Harry thought, and gave a shrug.

“Well, give it a go!” Ron urged, patting Harry’s shoulder eagerly. “Where is that slimy bastard!”’

It felt oddly backwards that Ron was so gleeful for Harry to invade Tom’s mind instead of  _ Voldemort,  _ but he couldn’t argue it too much.

He drifted, eyes closed. He felt like walking through a swamp, each step sucking and trying to get his feet to adhere further to the ground. Wading through molasses, eyes blinded like wind-rush and rain splattering his glasses.

It was hard to feel, through the numb detachment of it. Harry’s head hurt in a clouded way, a fog slowing him down as he struggled to breathe under its oppressive weight.

What  _ was  _ that? Something different? Something new?

“No.” Harry said, opening his eyes with a wince. The room suddenly felt much too loud, and much too bright. “No I can’t.”

“That sucks.” Ron winced, “ah well. I heard some bloody good news from ‘Mione about that uh, a place we could... _ go.  _ She was dropping off those hats for those elves, Merlin she’s been frantic since Riddle showed her that knitting thing…”

* * *

They named it the D.A.

And Harry learned very quickly, that they had a  _ lot  _ of work ahead of them.

* * *

Harry dreamed he was back in the D.A. Room. he knew it well, having scheduled countless lessons with the rest of their little group. He knew it inside and out, all the books by title. Somehow, his dream was cloudy and vague with things he knew so well.

Harry walked through the D. A. room, and then he wasn’t. The ground shifted, the tone became whispers. His dream change…

His body felt smooth, powerful and flexible. More than a Hungarian Horntail. Fitted with confidence and  _ speed.  _ He was gliding between shining metal bars, across dark cold stone...He moved with such agility it was as if he were flying.

It was dark, yet he could see objects shimmering in shades new to him. Colours he had never seen before.

He turned his head, and the shape of a man lit up in ghostly heat he could smell more than see. A man, sitting on the floor ahead. His chin drooping onto his chest, his outline gleaming in the dark.

Harry could  _ taste  _ the man, his scent permeating the air. He was alive but drowsing, dreaming in front of a door at the end of the corridor…

Harry wanted to bite the man, to taste blood on his skin. He could not yet, he had to obey and not indulge...he had more important work to do…

But the man-  _ oh  _ the man was stirring. A silvery cloak fell from his legs and he lunged upwards, towering so high he became a tree. He was a threat, a  _ danger,  _ and Harry had no choice.

He reared high from the floor and struck once, twice,  _ three times.  _ His teeth split skin like butter, burrowing and ripping over and over until he felt the warm gush of blood…

The man screamed, and then he fell silent. 

Harry’s forehead hurt so terribly. He turned, eyes flickering along to see the colours he didn’t know-

And then he saw Tom, staring with all the horror and revulsion through his own eyes- a mirror copy watching this mess and-

“Harry!” Someone screamed, and suddenly Harry woke up.

He could barely  _ breathe,  _ it hurts so much and his skin soaked itself with sweat. Harry’s heart raced, pounding through ribs as if he could shatter them.

“Your dad,” Harry panted out. “He’s been...attacked..”

“What?” said Ron uncomprehendingly.

“Your dad! He’s been bitten- we need to- to got to Dumbledore and-.”

Perhaps Ron could feel the urgency, because in minutes they were rushing and meeting Professor McGonagall halfway in the common room. Harry had never been so pleased to see her; it was a member of the Order of the Phoenix he needed now.

“It’s Ron’s dad,” Harry gasped out, “He’s been attacked by a snake and its serious, I saw it happen.”

Harry blinked and suddenly, time slipped away. He startled, alarmed and confused and- how had he gotten to the Headmaster’s tower? How had he- he was coming from the Hospital wing not-.

“Oh, it’s you, Professor McGonagall ...and…” 

Professor Dumbledore was sitting in a high-backed chair behind his desk; he leaned forward into the pool of candlelight illuminating the countless papers spread over its surface. He was wearing a magnificently embroidered purple and gold dressing gown, but he seemed quite awake.

“Mr. Potter had a-.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” said Harry quickly. “Mr. Weasley...has been attacked by a giant snake.”

The words seemed to reverberate in the air after he said them, slightly ridiculous, even comic. There was a pause in which Dumbledore leaned back and stared meditatively at the ceiling. Ron looked from Harry to Dumbledore, white-face and shocked. How had they gotten here? Harry didn’t remember anything from the walk, only the common room and suddenly here they were.

“How did you see this?” Dumbledore asked quietly, still not looking at Harry.

“Well...I don’t know,” Harry snapped angrily. It didn’t matter “Inside my head-.”

“You misunderstand me. I mean...can you recall the perspective or the position from which-.”

The door opened again. An alarming sound considering this entire visit was sudden and unplanned. 

Perhaps even more shocking, was Tom Riddle slipping into the room looking ashen and exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot, in fact, there were small specs of blood along the straight of his nose as if he had tried to wipe it off. Tom’s eyes had been watering blood, likely from a ruptured vessel.

“Dumbledore.” Tom said, voice hoarse and raw as if he had been screaming. His eyes slowly flickered to Harry, pausing as he took in the picture of him. Harry’s face tickled- his scar was bleeding.

“I saw you,” Tom said, hoarse and crackled. “I  _ told  _ you, to stay out of my head.”

“I wasn’t  _ in your head!”  _ Harry shouted, finally fed up with the slow pace of everything, “I was in-.”

“Her  _ name,”  _ Tom stressed sounding so tired and weary, “is  _ Nagini.” _

“Ah, the snake.” Dumbledore said quietly, staring at his folded fingers. Dumbledore stood up so quickly that Harry jumped, and addressed one of the old portraits hanging very near the ceiling.

“Everard?” Dumbledore said sharply, “and you too, Dilys!”

A rush of movement-

_ What?  _ Harry staggered, vision flickering. He was... _ sitting.  _ When had he sat? What had been said? How did- how much time did he just miss then?

Tom jolted ever so slightly next to him, sitting along a matching chair. Harry didn’t understand what was going on.

Dumbledore swooped down upon a silver instrument and placed it on his desk. He tapped it gently with the tip of his wand. The little device tinkled into life with a gentle rhythmic clicking noise Tiny puffs of pale green smoke issued from the minuscule silver tube at the top. Dumbledore watched the smoke closely, his brows furrowed. After a few seconds, the tiny puffs became a steady stream of smoke that thickened and coiled into a small serpent. It slithered through the air, pausing before it somehow split into two. Both coiling and undulating in the dark air. Dumbledore gave the instrument another gentle tap with his wand, the snakes vanishing.

Tom inhaled sharply from next to Harry, staring at the device with something like... _ fear? _

Yes. it was fear, because Harry could  _ feel it. _

Tom, for some unknown reason, was  _ terrified. _


	15. Carpe noctem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seize the night, hold her close.  
> Mourn the losses you will always have.

They were staying in number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The only sources of light were the fire and a few spluttering candles set around various shelves. Kreacher was disappearing through the hall, staring back with a malevolent glare as they watched him lazily. Sirius was there as well, looking anxious and nervous as no word came by.

Tom too arrived with them, sitting the furthest distance away from the small group. Ginny in particular had a dark aura around her, looking ready to tackle him in only her nightclothes.

“What happened?” Sirius asked quietly, a faint smell of stale beer on his skin.

“I..” Harry trailed off, glancing at Tom for a short second before looking back. “I had a...a kind of- vision…”

Harry told them all that he had seen, though he altered the story ever so slightly. Enough that it felt like he had watched the scene from the side. He ignored all mention of Tom, although Sirius’ eyes flickered to him as well.

Ron, who was still very white, gave Harry a fleeting look but did not speak. When Harry had finished, Fred, George, and Ginny continued to stare at him. Tom thankfully stared off in the distance, the blood from his face having been scrubbed off long before.

“Is mum here?” Fred asked Sirius.

“She probably doesn’t even know what’s happened yet.” said Sirius. “The important thing was to get you away before Umbridge could interfere. I expect Dumbledore’s letting Molly know now.”

“‘We’ve got to go to St. Mungos.” Ginny said quietly, sounding a bit in shock. “Sirius, can you lend us cloaks or…”

Everyone was still painfully bare in their night clothes. Tom’s looked especially odd, the pale white garb of the hospital. Perhaps he hadn’t the funds to buy proper sleep wear.

“You can’t go yet.” Sirius grimaced, “I know, but if you head off now it’s going to implicate how you knew.”

Ginny glared sharper at Tom, who was still blissfully silent.

“We can’t let the Ministry know anything about Harry’s visions,” Sirius continued, managing a small flicker to look at Tom, “and the Ministry can’t know about Tom  _ at all.” _

Tom laughed, a curt ugly dark noise. “Wouldn’t want to send me to Nurmengard, would we.”

Sirius’s upper lip curled ever so slightly, looking a bit irritated. “No. We need to wait, Dumbledore will have helped.”

“Nagini’s bite makes you bleed out.” Tom spoke with that still half pondering half mad tone of voice. He seemed oddly out of it, not quite all there in a dazed sort. Harry wondered if he had taken a calming draught before bed. “Stop chattering. He’ll be alive.”

“Oh, so you  _ know  _ that-.”

“Ginny.” Harry said quietly, knowing somehow the topic was sensitive. Ginny fell quiet.

For a while, the only sound was the crackling of the kitchen fire and the soft thud of Ron putting his head on the side of the chair.

Harry’s stomach was full of a horrible hot, bubbling guilt. They would not have known about the snake if not for him, but Harry remembered that vicious hunger and the taste of blood in his mouth. He felt the urge, he remembered  _ feeling  _ himself attack Mr. Weasley...He wondered if Tom felt the similar regret.

_ Don’t be stupid, you haven’t got fangs,  _ Harry told himself. Going so far as to chew on his fist anxiously, touching each tooth to confirm there was no wicked point.  _ You were sleeping, not attacking anyone… _

But he had, he knew it and he felt it.

Then, a burst of fire in midair illuminated the room. Tom flinched back so violently at the light and noise, he toppled from his chair to the far side in search of shelter.

Everyone ignored him, expressions lighting in joy. “Fawkes!” Sirius shouted, snatching the letter the large phoenix had in one large claw.

“Your father is still alive! Molly is on her way to the hospital- good news!”

A collective exhale of relief. Tom very slowly recovered and stood, stiff and disjointed and still looking disoriented by the flash.

Sirius suggested they all go to bed, but without any real conviction. The Weasley’s all looked at him in disgust, so they sat up waiting in candlelight for more information. Tom too refused to go to sleep, but once he settled into the chair the strange bonelessness to him claimed its victim, and he collapsed into a small dozing ball. Harry had never known that Tom could compress so small and unassuming, shockingly white and pale with the single spec of dark hair.

Fred fell into a doze, his head sagging sideways onto his shoulder. Ginny curled like a cat, but her eyes were open; reflecting firelight like a kneazle. Harry could see them, and he watched as Ron collapsed and fell victim as well.

Sirius kept looking from each of his wards to the next, taking guard for unmentioned intruders who may intervene in the waiting grief...waiting...waiting.

At ten past five in the morning, when Tom started to stir the beginnings of waking, the kitchen door swung open and Mrs. Weasley entered the room. She was extremely pale, but when they all awoke and turned to look at her, she gave a small smile. 

“He’s going to be all right.” She said, her voice weak with tiredness. “He’s sleeping, but we can see him later. Kill is with him now.”

Fred fell back into his chair, hands over his face in wordless relief. Ginny leapt to her feet, running to her mother to hug her tightly.

Tom stirred, waking with a foggy dazed expression. Harry could feel it tickle the back of his head, that area of his head that he had tested before at Ron’s insistence. Flashes of memory, and strange sensation that he couldn’t quite recall. Without thinking, he scratched his thigh and blinked back the unexplained taste of beans in his mouth.

“Breakfast!” Sirius shouted loudly, jumping to his feet. “Where is that damned elf? Kreacher!’

The elf did not come, so Sirius cursed and ran into the kitchen himself, drawing his wand and doing a tally. “Lets see, seven then- Bacon and eggs, I think. Some tea, and toast-.”

“Do we have beans?” Tom asked sleepily, eyes foggy as he stretched his legs out like a sleepy dog. “I’m craving beans.”

Harry ignored him, and busied himself with the stove. Tom from the other room began to meander in, stumbling into the doorway but managing to get to the kitchen table. Tom always was an early riser.

“Tea?” Harry asked Tom, trying to ignore the emotional Weasley reunion in the other room.

“ _ Please,” _ Tom said, voice a bit garbled.

Sirius snuffled, looking at Tom suspiciously as he slid the mug over. “You have this vision too then?”

“Mm.” Tom hummed, sipping the scalding liquid. Harry couldn’t understand how Tom’s tongue could possibly survive.

Sirius didn’t look impressed, but he didn’t push it.

They managed to prepare breakfast, laying it out informally on the kitchen table. Tom commandeered an entire small plate of bacon and vanished back into the living room, perching deep on a recliner chair to eat it enthusiastically with the still-sleep-fog. 

Mrs Weasley in turn targeted Harry, pulling him away to enthusiastically bawl her gratitude for saving Arthur’s life. Harry managed a few gentle pats on her back before it became a Weasley crying fest all over again. Harry ran off to seek refuge with Tom, nursing his third cup of tea and amusing himself with a stoic Sirius.

“Sirius,” Harry said, feeling uncomfortable with the vision still, “I- I think the vision is a bit…”

He stilled, then he told his godfather everything. Sirius accepted it with a calm face, nodding along deep in thought. He looked at Tom with a frown when Harry mentioned the end, having seen Tom and knowing that both boys shared the same dream.

“Did you tell Dumbledore this?” Sirius asked quietly.

“Yes.” Harry said, “I think that…”

“You should get Crina here.” Tom suggested, voice slurring with his exhaustion, “she’d have a blast.”

Sirius flinched, nose wrinkling at the thought. Harry felt the pit in his stomach drop out. 

“I- I don’t want to talk to her.” Harry said.  _ I don’t want to be experimented on. _

Tom squinted at him, then snorted quietly. “Right, no we’re fine. She isn’t...playing with us. Wants to watch us  _ grow  _ and  _ mature,  _ like bloody wine.”

Sirius looked baffled by Tom’s words, but somehow, it reassured Harry inexplicably.

“Crina is fine,” Tom dismissed lazily and blearily, “she’s helped.”  _My mind._

“ _ Crina,”  _ Sirius mirrored in surprise, “ _ helped.  _ I didn’t know she could bloody  _ do that.” _

Tom snorted and sipped more tea.

Everyone began to filter up to bedrooms. Harry didn’t, too nervous that if he slept he’d struggle with dreams and come awake with a corpse on his hands. Tom somehow sensed this, looking much more alert and awake as the day drew on. With a scoff, he grabbed Harry’s shoulder roughly and dragged him up to his personal bedroom, stripped sheets and nondescript pillow and all.

“Sleep,” Tom said, sounding much more lucid. “You’re not going to go on a rampage, boy hero.”

“Don’t call me that,” Harry groaned, but slumped onto the mattress and felt himself drifting.

When he woke up, Tom was sitting reading a book that he had decided not to take with him to Hogwarts. They met eyes, and Tom promptly looked away.

“Go eat,” Tom said dismissively, paying more attention to his book rather than Harry. “I’m returning to Hogwarts to pack. Your trunks are being loaded for you by the House Elves.”

Harry tried to process that, but he was well exhausted by the day already.

Everybody except Harry was riotously happy and talkative as they changed out of their robes into comfier clothing and into more suitable clothing. They greeted Tonks and Made-Eye, who turned up to escort them across London. Remus appeared to take Tom by one arm, ready to apparate him back to Hogwarts to sort out their materials and various necessities.

“It’s because he doesn’t follow the Hogwarts Ciricullum.” Remus apologized well meaningly, “he has assignments I don’t know of, so he needs to pack himself.”

Tom waved one hand in a mock friendly way before they vanished away. Harry allowed himself to be swept along with the Weasleys as Tonks instructed.

They arrived in what seemed to be a crowded reception area where rows of witches and wizards sat upon rickety wooden chairs, some looking perfectly normal and perusing out-of-date copies of magazines. Others sported disfigurements like claws or extra limbs protruding from their face. A sweaty-faced witch in the center of the front row, who was panting heavily, whistled steam out of her mouth like a kettle. 

Witches and Wizards in lime-green robes were walking up and down the rows, asking questions and taking notes that hovering quills jotted down quickly. Harry noticed the emblem embroidered on their clothing; a wand and bone crossed over one another.

“Doctors?” Harry asked.

“Nah, they’re healers.” said Ron.

They didn’t look anything like Crina. They looked more like...like smiling poster women rather than the prim proper official Crina embodied.

There was a floor guide written on the wall. Floors separated from all sorts of different injuries. Cauldron explosions (Neville came to mind), broom crashes, dragon burns, uncontrollable giggling, vanishing sickness-. Harry couldn’t explain why, but something in his brain made his eyes freeze on the  _ Potion and Plant Poisoning (rashes, regurgitation, overdoses, inappropriate applications, etc.) Third Floor. _

They followed Mrs. Weasley through large double doors and along the narrow corridor beyond, which was lined with even more portraits of famous healers and glowing candles. More witches and wizards in lime-green roves walked in and out of the doors they passed. Harry couldn’t imagine Crina wearing lime-green.

They entered the “Creature-Induced Injuries,” ward, where Molly led them to the appropriate ward and room. Mad-Eye growled his approval as they found their room, slipping inside quickly.

The ward was small and rather dingy as the only window was narrow and set high in the wall facing the door. Most of the light came from the candles floating near the ceiling. There were only three patients. Mr. Weasley was occupying the bed on the far end of the ward beside the tiny window. Harry was relieved to see that the man was smiling at him, looking pale and exhausted but quite comfortable on the many pillows propping him up.

“Hello!” Mr. Weasley smiled, beaming despite his state. “Bill just left, Molly, but he says he’ll be back later.”

“I’m so sorry.” Harry blurted, feeling horrible. “I...If it wasn’t for me-.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Weasley dismissed it, “thanks to you, I’m still alive. Truthfully, I owe you so much.”

Harry couldn’t help but feel as if the entire ordeal was his fault.

* * *

They whispered it once, and suddenly everyone stepped aside and Harry felt his world change.

_ Possession,  _ the idea that somehow,  _ You-Know-Who  _ had  _ possessed  _ him. 

Everything slid into devastating perspective, crude and sharp and Harry felt it like a sludgehammer against his head. Piercing him, grabbing and pulling it out with a thrumming truth of  _ I’m the weapon. _

He felt it like poison were pumping through his veins, chilling him, bringing him out in a sweat as he swayed while standing.  _ I’m the one Voldemort’s trying to use. That’s why they’ve got guards. Its not for my protection. Its for other people, and its not working. I did attack Mr. Weasley, it was me. Voldemort made me do it and he could be in my head-. _

He felt it like static, a rubber band pulling taught before snapping cruelly against his brain. An electric shock that left him twitching through the movements of the train.

Something washed through his skull, reassuring and amused and irritated all at once. A hazy calming soothing feeling that Harry had felt before.

He gasped, audibly enough that another train passengers looked at him worried. 

They were looking at him, watching him. Harry shook his head violently and touched the bit in the back of his head, the soothing wash that left his thoughts slowing and fogging.

_ Stop thinking,  _ he felt. No words, but an impression that was equally exasperated and tired. There were no words, or clear concise language. Only emotions, impressions, and Harry felt his brain slow down under the calming wash.

Strange, when had Tom been so... _ calm? _

“Harry, are you  _ sure  _ you’re all right?” said Mrs. Weasley in a worried voice as they walked towards Grimmauld Place. “You look ever so pale…”

If Harry hadn’t felt such a cool wash, he knew he wouldn't’ be able to answer. Now, he was able to think things carefully. “I’m fine, Mrs. Weasley. Just tired.”

She nodded, still looking worried. 

He was tired, deep in his bones. Tom’s little cabby in his brain had lulled him to relax, like the siren song of sleep. He was barely conscious when he wobbled to a couch, collapsing exhausted along the cushions.

The moment his eyes shut, his body drifted heavy and aching…

He felt as if he had traveled miles and miles...it seemed impossible that less than twenty four hours ago he was still at Hogwarts. He was so tired- he was scared to sleep...and he sunk.

It was through a film in his head had been waiting to start. He was walking down a deserted corridor toward a plain black door, past rough stone walls and torched. An open doorway onto a flight of stone steps led downstairs on the left...He reached to the black door but could not open it-.

_ Wake up.  _ Tom said, irritated and a bit pained.

Harry woke up, flinching away. 

He was alone on the couch.

* * *

Everybody else spent the following morning putting up Christmas decorations. Tom returned as well, lugging not one, but all of the others trunks behind him magically. His own trunk he hauled personally back up to the bedroom claimed as his. 

Sirius ever being in such a good mood; he was loudly singing carols that Tom scowled at with every opportunity. Harry could hear his voice echoing up through the floor in the cold and empty drawing room, he could feel the little buzz of annoyance and haze that always seemed present with Tom.

Hermione appeared once Hogwarts was officially released for Winter break. She appeared, chewing on her lip and wringing her knitted mittens worriedly. 

Harry didn’t want to see her, so he casually ran away.

Tom was curled up in the drawing room, reading a book and looking thoroughly unimpressed when Harry stormed in. The fire nearby crackled merrily, and Tom sighed in impending dismay. “Should I ask why you’re hiding?”

“No.” Harry huffed.

He wasn’t so lucky to stay hidden. Almost instantly after, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione drifted into the room to seat themselves around Harry. He would have pouted, but Tom was prickling in the back of his head, amused somehow by the sight.

“We want to talk to you Harry!” Hermione said, “Ginny and Ron said that you’ve been hiding ever since-.”

“I don’t want to talk!” Harry snapped.

“Oh come off it,” Ron huffed, “so what if you’re being possessed-.”

Tom snorted ever so quietly, turning the page of his book. Something about history in agriculture.

“So...do  _ you  _ think I’m being possessed?” Harry asked Ginny sharply.

“Well, can you remember everything you’re doing?” Ginny asked. “Are there big blank periods where you don’t know what you’ve been up to?”

Harry racked his brains. Tom stilled, looking suddenly very intrigued.

“When I was possessed, I couldn’t remember what I’d been doing for hours at a time. I’d find myself somewhere else and not know how I got there-.”

“You can stop.” Tom drawled lazily, although his tone and eyes sharp. “It isn’t possession.”

Ginny’s lip curled back, Harry knew that Tom was prickled by the rudeness.

“Well, how would  _ you  _ know?” Ron asked, huffing at the sight of Tom reading willingly.

Tom rolled his eyes, stared at Harry pointedly, and then-.

Harry slumped against the couch suddenly; entirely relaxed and boneless. Ginny and Hermione gave a matching cry of surprise, Ron gaped and jerked his arms up to catch Harry’s limp body.

“That’s how.” Tom said, although his one was noticably strained. He was trembling ever so slightly, one nostril beginning to drip a mixture of snot tinged with slight blood. He looked terribly exhausted; the strange relaxed feeling pulled itself away and Harry found himself stiffening instantly.

“What the- the  _ hell?”  _ Harry gaped, looking at Tom in absolute bafflement. “What did you  _ do?” _

“You needed to relax.” Tom clipped out, although the weakness in his voice didn’t entirely come out right. It looked like the effort was incredibly taxing for the scant seconds it worked. “Any tenser, boy wonder, and you could crack a walnut between your-.”

“Leave Harry alone!” Ginny shrieked, pulling a wand sharply. Harry could  _ feel  _ the sudden burn of paranoia, adrenaline surging hard in his throat-.

“It’s fine.” Harry blurted hastily, “actually helped. He’s right, I’ve been bloody tense. Sorry everyone.”

Tom looked down, reading his book. His eyes weren’t flickering across the pages anymore, instead, he closed them quietly in rest.

From downstairs, they could hear Sirius singing loudly “God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs” at the top of his voice.

It hit Harry hard, how much he missed Sirius. The man’s delight over Christmas Eve was infectious, he was determined to make sure everyone was having a good time. Even Ginny, who was bristling with fury cracked a laugh as Sirius spent an hour hunting down Tom to throw a Christmas hat perfectly to land on his head.

The tarnished chandeliers were no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers; magical snow glittered in heaps over the threadbare carpets. A great Christmas Tree, obtained by Mad-Eye, sparkled with live little fairies.

Harry awoke on Christmas morning to find a stack of presents at the foot of his bed and Ron already halfway through opening his own, rather larger, pile.

“Good haul this year,” Ron said through a cloud of paper. “Thanks for the Broom Compass, it’s excellent. Beats Hermione’s gift-.”

Harry sorted through his presents and found one with Hemione’s handwriting on it. She had given him too a book that resembled a diary, except that it said things like  _ “Do it today or else you’ll pay!”  _ every time he opened a page.

Sirius and Remus had given Harry a set of excellent books that covered an assortment of topics, relating from curses to charms and defense. Each book had amazing colourful images, showing better descriptions than any other book he read. He flicked through the first book eagerly; he could see himself using it a fair bit. Hagrid had sent a furry brown wallet with fangs. Tonks’ gift was a small working model of a Firebolt which Harry set loose around the room. Ron had given him an enormous box of sweets, and on top of it all was the beautiful hand knitted jumper that Mrs. Weasley likely spent weeks working on.

With a loud  _ Crack!  _ Fred and George apparatted into the room.

“Merry Christmas!” said George. “Don’t go downstairs for a bit, it’s a mess.”

“Why not?” said Ron.

“Mum’s crying.” Fred said heavily. “Percy drama.”

“Ah,” Ron said, diving back into his gifts.

They got dressed but without any ability to head downstairs, all that was left was to head upwards. Namely, to Tom’s room. 

Tom was awake, since he arose painfully early right around five in the morning. He was reading again, something that Hermione was curious over but Tom was very careful to slide his books away. He shrugged off her questions with a blank “Crina.” and the subject dropped instantly. Harry wasn’t sure what Crina Dimitriu may send her patients for Christmas, maybe she had saved Grindelwald’s tongue?

“Why are you here?” Tom said, sounding a bit miffed but accepting of it. Harry gave a small nod to Hermione who stepped forward bravely.

“Here!” She said, thrusting out a package boldly. Tom blinked then stared at it with a peculiar expression.

Ron shuffled unsure, Fred and George watched with excited faces.

Tom picked up the wrapped present, staring at it unsure. He peeled the paper back carefully, not tearing it at all. He stared down at the knitted material, woven in unique but recognizable lines. “This is a blanket.”

Hermione shifted on her feet. “I knitted like how you showed me-.”

Tom unfolded the blanket, it wasn’t Hermione’s best work but it was rather nice. A slate grey-blue colour that rested oddly between all shades of Tom. If you took Tom’s eyes, hair, and skin and mixed all of the colour together and then threw it into a blanket. He ran his fingers over the lines, “Knit one, Purl two.”

Tom’s face twisted, contorting oddly like he didn’t know how to make an expression. Harry had never felt so much turmoil in his life.

“Anyways,” Hermione said, shifting uncomfortably, “do you know where Kreacher is? I have a present for him as well-.”

Tom nodded very slowly, still petting the blanket with that odd expression. “I...yes. Below the boiler I belive.”

“Wonderful!” Hermione cheered, “shall you show us?”

Poor Tom looked incredibly overwhelmed.

They made their way downstairs, only to find what seemed to be more of a den. Most of the cupboard was taken up with said boiler, but the foot’s space under the pipes Kreacher had made himself a nest. A jumble of assorted rags and smelly old blankets were piled on the floor and the small dent in the middle showed where Kreacher slept. Hermione pulled out another package, setting it down right in the middle of it.

“There’s that.” Hermione said, looking around at the various photographs of unnamed people. 

Tom was staring at the nest, a small frown. Harry felt it as well, a strange alluring sensation that made his skin prickle. Glancing over- Tom’s arms had exposed goosebumps.

They left the room, heading back to the main entry room where the Christmas morning feast awaited them.

The day passed wonderfully, so spectacular in fact that Tom even laughed in good humour twice. It was enough of an oddity that Tom himself looked alarmed; Sirius swooped forward, transforming into a dog to lather his face with his tongue in enthusiastic congratulations.

Crina didn’t appear, but at the end of the day when Harry drifted back up to his bed, there was another package on top of it. He undid the wrapping, pulling free a book.

He opened the cover, not spotting a title on the outer binding. Written in Crina’s decorative handwriting she said:  _ I have a feeling that Albus will abuse you most painfully. _

There was nothing else, except a thin silver chain with a twisted coil around the length affixed below the message. It was clearly a necklace, but not one that Harry recognized. He was too timid to touch it, so he flicked to the first page and read the title.

_ Mind arts, Defensive Occlumency. _

* * *

Snape. In the kitchen.

Harry announced his presence with a polite, “Er.”

Snape looked around at him, his face framed between curtains of greasy black hair.

“Sit down, Potter.”

“You know,” said Sirius loudly, reclined on his chair casually, “I think I’d prefer it if you didn’t give orders here, Snape. It’s my house, you see.”

An ugly flush shifted over Snape’s face. Harry sat down in a chair beside Sirius rather quickly.

“I’m here on Dumbledore’s orders.” said Snape, whose voice was waspish. “The headmaster has sent me to tell you, Potter, that it is his wish for you to study Occlumency this term.”

Harry blinked in surprise, before he blurted, “mind guarding?”

This time it was Snape’s turn to look slightly surprised. “Yes. An obscure branch of magic, but a highly useful one. Curious how  _ you  _ came to recognize its name.”

“Well I got a book for Christmas.” Harry said, using one thumb to jerk towards the stairwell. “On Occlumency.”

“You got  _ what?”  _ Sirius gaped, “from  _ who?” _

Snape looked at him with a sneer. Harry felt almost smug as he said, “from Crina Dimitriu.”

Snape paled, and Sirius stilled in the terror that seemed to penetrate him so dearly at her name.

“You received a gift…” Snape paused, “from  _ Madam Dimitriu?” _

“What can I say,” Harry said a bit sharp, “she  _ likes me.” _

“Madam Dimitriu does not  _ like-.”  _ Snape stopped, choking on his hissing with a curt inhale. “Madam Dimitriu is a distinguished individual in the field of mind magic-.”

“Yeah well, maybe you should summon her. Tell her she’s got a new test subject.” Sirius spat, glaring at Snape pointedly.

Sirius’ fear of her apparently was well formed, because even Snape looked intimidated by the thought.

“I’m uh, reading about Occlumency already.” Harry said, feeling very uncomfortable, “I mean, I don’t  _ understand  _ much but-.”

“I’ll get to the point.” Snape said. “I will expect you at six o’clock on Monday evenings, Potter. If anyone asks, you are taking Remedial Potions. You are to learn Occlumency under my lessons.”

“Right.” Harry said, feeling something heavy sink into his gut.

The door opened to the kitchen, and in walked Mr. Weasley shouting out a delighted, “cured!”

Snape sniffed once before he stood, and walked out without a further word.

“So...you’re cured? That’s great news, really great…” Sirius said.

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Weasley, leading her husband forward into a chair. “Found an antidote to whatever that snakes got in its fangs. We should be able to celebrate the New Year at the Burrow…”

“Oh, don’t worry! Dumbledore went around and reinforced some wards- you can come visit too Sirius!” Arthur cheered in delight. “A new year surrounded with family and friends!”

“That sounds amazing Arthur.” Sirius smiled, looking relaxed and relieved for once. “It would be wonderful to get out of this blasted house…”

With that, arrangements were made hastily with the wonderful prospect of returning home for another celebration. It felt almost like another Christmas- the Burrow smelling and feeling open and free.

Almost at once, the twins raced off to decorate the home in a way that everyone found comfort in. Molly hurried with large hams, thick butter tarts and buckets of potatoes. Sirius shifted into his dog form and took off in a dead sprint through the meadow surrounding the house, returning only when he had lathered up a foam.

Tonks came, dragging along her mother and mentor on each arm. The winter air and snow was a welcome fresh breeze to the musty stuffy air of Sirius’ home.

“Come inside!” Mrs. Weasley shouted, waving a pair of hat and mittens as if the sudden clothing would help the new guests. “Oh, I’ve already called Albus, he says he’ll be right along. A proper party tonight!”

“That sounds amazing Molly!” Tonks beamed, shifting her hair to a bold bright blue that somehow fit in with all the snow.

Harry couldn’t help the excited buzz in his chest. Christmas was wonderful, but a chance to celebrate the New Year would be something even more spectacular.

“I got Remus to come by later,” Tonks winked happily, “reckon we’ll get the whole gang.”

“Yeah,” Harry grinned, finally feeling free, “that would be amazing.”

* * *

Grimmuald place was empty, and Tom was enjoying it.

Everyone had left for the Burrow, apparently staying the night and cheering on the new era.

Tom didn’t care much for it. He never had- he had even told Dumbledore coldly that he would rather stay alone in the large house. Crina had given him a new book after all, one that felt old and rare with the parchment of its pages. Yellowed and in some spots, stained. Crina must have rebound the cover so it didn’t reveal its title, even then the book seemed completely normal if not for its contents.

The book related to soul magic, the concept of identity and soul itself. The emotions, the thoughts and minds and cognitive abilities of an individual dissected and exposed through systematic controlled experimentation over all of history. A horcrux, he found, was the process of splitting said soul and storing it in another vessel.

When Tom had asked Crina what a horcrux was, he hadn’t expected her to look interested and said  _ “I don’t know. But I will find out.” _

For Christmas she sent him a rather amazing book; he would much rather read all day then be dragged to somewhere else to pretend to enjoy festivities.

He heard a door open nearby, a low rumble of voices. Likely the last of his ‘guards,’ talking. Tom wasn’t so naive to presume he’d be left alone overnight in the headquarters of the Order. 

The window was dark, masked by falling snow. The house was cold, Tom had not lit a fire in the hearths, instead bundling himself in the blanket Hermione had knit for him. It was warm, nostalgic in its careful stitches.

Footsteps approached, Tom didn’t care enough to lift his head.

“Tom,” Dumbledore said tiredly, knowing that Tom would ignore him. “I trust you know that I will leave you supervised.”

Tom turned a page, beginning to read at the top once more.

“A member of the Order has graciously agreed to watch you for the night. I must be off, the Weasley’s are expecting me, you see.”

Tom ignored him. Dumbledore sighed sadly; disappointed in his failures.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said, “thank you so much, I’ll be back tomorrow I believe after lunch.”

“Of course, Albus. It is not a problem at all.”

Tom  _ froze. _

He knew that voice. The slight shifting on his words, the shape of his vowels. He knew it like poison in his veins or fumigation burning out his eyes.

Dumbledore walked his way away. Tom and his guard said nothing until the house drew quiet from Dumbledore leaving into the snow flurries outside the house.

They were completely isolated, alone, fo the entire night.

“Hello Tom,” Doge said, settling himself on a chair directly next to Tom. “How wonderful to see you again.”

Tom’s vision was twisting. His breathing was shaking, he couldn’t focus or see and he was  _ too aware  _ of the heat of Doge’s leg far too close and-.

“How?” Tom croaked out; his hands were shaking so violently it was obvious he couldn’t read. “ _ How?” _

Doge smiled, cruel and sharp and finally as malicious as everything Tom knew he was. “Oh, my apologies. My family is friends of Albus, you see. O’m the largest financial contributor to the Order.”

Tom didn’t stop himself- he flung the book to the side, bent over, and retched right onto the floor.

It hurt, thick and stunk through his nose. Doge crooned something soft, raking his finger’s through Tom’s hair. It was quickly becoming damp, plastered to his skull as panic left him wheezing. He felt disjointed, not entirely there. 

“How sad,” Doge clicked his tongue, “I hate when you make a mess.”

“Don’t bloody touch me!” Tom rasped out, all venom and no power. Doge kept stroking his hair. His hand tightened, grabbing Tom’s roots and forcing his neck to arch backwards with a sharp cry.

“Yes,” Doge hummed to himself, a monster in every way, “I think this is much better than the Weasley’s little party.”

“I hate you.” Tom hissed, teeth bared sharply. He couldn’t do magic, the wards would clamp down instantly and know that Tom had attacked an  _ Order Member.  _ He had no alibi, no way to call for safety.  _ Maybe  _ he could try to summon Crina, but at this late on a holiday there was no likely-.

“I know you do,” Doge smiled, other hand caressing Tom’s trembling jaw, “it makes it more fun.”

Tom was thankful Doge ignored his book, instead standing to drag Tom by his scalp through the room. He really  _ was  _ an Order member, because he appeared to know the layout of the house well enough. Tom could barely keep his feet under him, panting for air through the panic and horror. He tried to puke again as he was dragged, but there was nothing left in his stomach- it was all on the floor near the couch.

“No,” Tom spat, although he lost venom and quickly began to sound pleading as Doge kicked open the door to  _ his room,  _ “no no-.”

“It’s a Christmas gift,” Doge looked almost offended, “you should be thankful.”

“I hate you,” Tom bit out, hating how he felt the tears trailing down the corner of his left eye. Everything had been going so  _ well. _

“I know,” Doge crooned, pulling out his wand to split the seams of Tom’s shirt. Hermione’s blanket was shredded, falling to the ground in unraveling strings. 

The bed was once comfortable, and now it was his cell. He could scream but nobody was in the house to hear him- Doge knew and seemed to make a game of how loud could be make Tom beg.

It wasn’t constrained by time anymore, not like the previous meetings. They had the entire night alone and isolated, behind the strongest wards in the country and Tom couldn’t get away.

His blood was tainted and sour and he wondered if Doge was trying to bleed it out of him.

_ I hate you.  _ Tom thought, vomiting and retching over and over until his abdominal muscles cramped at Doge’s light touch.  _ I hate you. I hate this. I hate everything. _

Over until something chimed happily, bright little bells of New Year.

“Oh right,” Doge said, finally  _ finally finally,  _ pulling away looking exhausted and content. “Happy Birthday, Tom.”

He threw sickles on the bed. Currency, like Tom had wanted it for coins and was nothing more than-.

Tom curled up, hurting and hating and through it his brain repeated everything over and over until he wanted to claw his eyes out and turn his brain to pulp.

_ No more.  _ Tom thought hours later, barely able to stand through the pain. He moved on autopilot, not truly there as he went through the careful movements of stripping his bed, throwing it into a laundry chute that Kreacher would likely burn all fabric. He sunk into a bath shaking and bleeding and thought,  _ no more. _

He came back with pulsing eyes, blood soaking as he pulled on new trousers, foregoing buttons because he wouldn't be able to push them through the holes.

_ No more.  _ Tom thought, and dug through his trunk he packed hastily from Hogwarts. The thick bottles of potion hidden at the bottom, a jar as large as one Mrs. Weasley stored jams, and he unwound the top with hitching sobs.

_ No more.  _ Tom thought, and he drank the entire jar.

* * *

Harry laughed, watching the fireworks Fred and George set off outside the Burrow, and then felt something wrong.

It was hard to describe- almost as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over him in that temperature. His fingers were numb, not there at all. His vision was twisting, the fireworks emphasized the loud rattling of his heart.

“Harry?” Tonks asked, leaning against him worriedly. “You okay?”

“I…” Harry swallowed dryly, when had he started shaking?

“Whoa there,” Tonks steadied him with one firm hand. “Panic attack? It’s fine, breathe with me-.”

It helped, and slowly the panic and haze began to recede. It lingered at the back of his heads, through the fireworks and the games and champagne inside after. For hours it lingered, buzzing like hornets suck in his skull-.

It drew back, and then Harry couldn’t feel anything.

It was...cold and broken and so far and- it felt like a Dementor had sunk into his skin and his eyes were oozing out of his skull and-.

Harry bent over and vomited on the floor. Fred and George cheered, obviously thinking the booze had gotten to him. Tonks cackled, banishing it away-.

Something was wrong. Something was so terribly wrong.

“You okay?” Tonks asked with a grin on her face.

“I feel like I’m dying.” Harry said.

Tonks laughed, and then Harry felt his mind disconnect. He went limp a second, Tonks squawking in alarm as he slipped away.

“Careful, pup!” Sirius cheered, scooping Harry up in one tipsy coordinated movement. “Too much alco-.”

“No, Sirius.” Harry said, staring distantly at nothing, he couldn’t focus but it was so wrong and- “I feel like I’m dying.”

Sirius frowned in confusion, then eyes righting in concern. “Harry-.”

Harry’s back arched, and he seized.

Sirius shouted, a table was cleared. Harry lay on the surface contorting slightly as his mouth moved through rhythmic chewing on nothing. Fingertips turning to claws as his eyes blinked uncontrollably; he went limp with heaving air and heavy confusion and- “No more,” Harry slurred.

“Whats wrong, Harry?” Sirius said, gently holding Harry’s shoulder and checking both eyes for movement, “is it him?”

“No,” Harry slurred, wheezing out in pain. “I- I-”

“Give him some space, Sirius.” Remus soothed, using one hand to rub Harry’s back. The festivities had turned into a quiet sad thing watching Harry scared.

“No I...Tom.” Harry choked out, trembling like a leaf, “we... _ Tom.” _

“Pup-.”

Harry couldn’t understand, but a little space in his brain was fading and numb and he was  _ so afraid  _ and- “something is wrong with Tom.”

Sirius and Tonks exchanged a look. 

“I can go check on him?” Tonks offered, “a quick pop over…”

“No I…” Harry blinked. He paled, turning ghostly. He couldn’t feel anything anymore. “I- I think he’s  _ dead.” _

A second of silence, then people jumped into movement.

“I’ll take him.” Remus said, using one arm to prop Harry as Sirius hurried back. Mad-Eye was quick behind, as the trio of Sirius, Tonks, and Mad-Eye rushed through the floo.

Once Harry could stand properly, he surged forward and with combined help of Remus and Mrs. Weasley, he managed through the floo.

When they arrived, Grimmuald was in chaos. The kitchen, the room with the largest table, had been turned into something from Harry’s worst nightmares.

The table was cleared free and covered with a pale white cloth. On top, Tom was sprawled out spread eagle with eyes half open and clearly seeing nothing. Sirius, Tonks, and Mad-Eye were sprinting around, fetching water, sorting through a huge bag of Auror field medical equipment, and working on conjuring enough bright light to turn the room into a hospital.

“Merlin’s Beard!” Remus gasped, “what is going on?”

“Poisoned!” Sirius shouted, hauling a bucket of water to the table. “By God knows what! Bastard was seizing when we found him-.”

“Doge was reading and didn’t notice a thing.” Mad-Eye grumbled, looking displeased with the man.

Harry couldn’t explain it, but he spat out a sharp  _ “Liar!”  _ and swayed where he stood.

“Careful,” Remus said, his hand a vice on Harry’s shoulder. Harry needed to sit down.

“That connection,” Sirius said, dropping to his knees next to Harry. Mrs. Weasley was running off, hurrying to contact Albus. “That connection of yours- when did you feel odd? When did this start?”

“I…” Harry choked, feeling the panic come back. 

“He had a panic attack roughly four hours ago.” Tonks reported in a stone steady voice Harry had never heard before. “Only started vomiting and swaying maybe twenty minutes ago.”

“Fast acting then,” Mad-Eye grimaced, “Panic you said? May have been standard anxiety…”

“Wish we had reports from that  _ damned  _ Crina.” Sirius said, “you thinking accidental poisoning? He was stressed and found something in here?”

“For all intensive purposes, we need to count this as a suicide attempt.” Mad-Eye reported, fussing with spells over Tom.

At some point, he paused in confusion then stuck his hand into Tom’s lax mouth.

Remus jolted in alarm, but Mad-Eye purposefully lifted Tom’s tongue through all the drool and cursed loudly, roaring out, “Tonks!”

Tonks flitted over, taking a single look before she paled. It only lasted a second before she practically pounced on Tom’s face, lifting his eyelids by ripping a few lashes out in her hasty actions.

“Shite,” Tonks said, “ _ Shite.  _ Get Snape here  _ now-  _ this isn’t poison its a bloody  _ overdose.” _

_ “What?”  _ Sirius gaped, looking at the grim-faced duo. “On  _ what?” _

“Dreamless Sleep I reckon.” Tonks said, scrambling to cut Tom’s shirt off. She left his undergarments on, but slit off his long trousers. Tom looked so pale and thin with the long black boxers and the translucent skin. 

Molly rushed back in, Dumbledore in toe. He looked a bit sleepy, but no less alert. He took one look at Tom before his expression went grave. He swept past Tom and the bustling aurors, instead coming to rest before Harry.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly, “are you alright?”

Harry stared at the floor, “I felt like dying.”

“I’m so sorry.” said Dumbledore.

Snape came in the room, looking thoroughly peeved to be there. He carried a thick bag with him, looking unhappy enough to stab the nearest loud mouthed brat.

“Overdose,” Mad-Eye said to Snape, who stilled only a second when he noticed his patient. “Looks like he was an addict.”

“ _ What?”  _ Harry blurted in horror, “what- but-.”

Everything came together with shocking clarity. The hazy actions of Tom, the slurring and confused disorientation in the morning. The adverse reaction to the Calming Draught. The way he was so confused and slept like the dead when they held vigil waiting for Mr. Weasley’s medical update.

“Stand back.” Snape said, nearly draping himself over Tom. He checked Tom’s inner eyelids, the blue-silver shade of the skin there. His eyes were glazed and unseeing, clouded over like cataracts. Snape checked Tom’s mouth, pulling up on his tongue to see what looked like mercury painted all along the underside.

Snape grimaced, pulling back from Tom’s prone body. “Dreamless Sleep Potion Overdose. He looks as if he’s been using for perhaps six months. Not severe enough to have developed narcolepsy. There will be a withdrawal.”

“What do you need from us?” Tonks asked, and Snape passed her what looked like a restraint.

They tied him to the table, layin spread across the surface. His chest was barely moving; he looked like an animated corpse.

Snape shoved something into Tom’s mouth, a lump of rock.

Then he reached into his back, drew out a small knife, and slit Tom’s left wrist. Tom didn’t react, even as his blood began to sluggishly ooze in rhythmic spurts.

“This will burn it from his system.” Snape said, passing Mad-Eye a large vial of something mint green, “force it in.”

Mad-Eye did so, injecting it into the split vessel. Mint green and blood touched and hissed and fizzed like carbonated pops Dudley liked.

A few minutes, then Tom ached, eyes coming back to life, and he  _ screamed. _

_ “Let me go!”  _ He screamed, voice hoarse and raw already. The bezoar rammed down his throat had done some damage. “Stop-  _ stop touching me!” _

“Hold him down,” Snape said without mercy. Tom sobbed, the skin all along his arm began to bubble from the inside out, the potion being melted from within Tom’s body.

Tom kept screaming, babbling broken phrases. His body covered in a sheen of sweat, boxers plastered wetly to his skin. Tom cried and begged, and then he stopped and went horribly quiet.

“Is he…” Sirius trailed off nervously.

“Not unconscious.” Snape said. “The antidote prevents sleep until its metabolized. He’ll be awake for twelve hours.”

“This can’t be ethical.” Remus whispered, but there was no complaint. Tom moaned quietly, the skin of his throat bubbling violently and his mouth leaked blood.

_ No more.  _ Harry felt in his heart and soul.  _ No more. _

“Can you stun him?” Harry croaked out.

“No.” Snape said, and didn’t look at him again.

Tom kept crying, and burning from the inside out.

* * *

It took until morning for Tom’s crying to go quiet. Dawn was rising, bright light upstairs although the kitchen remained warm from the hearth.

Tom had sweated so much the white cloth under him turned grey. His temperature rose and brought a sickly flush to his face and chest. His ribs heaved, stretched thin on his frame.

“Why does he look so small?” Harry asked, his knees drawn to his chest. He had tried, but he couldn’t sleep.

“The potion addition,” Sirius explained quietly. “It...wastes parts of you. Leaves you starving but you won’t gain weight.”

Tom whimpered quietly on the table. Restraints shaking as he tugged them. Harry felt that noise deep in his gut.

“I never noticed.” Harry said. “I should have noticed.”

Sirius wrapped one arm around him, tugging him close, “you couldn’t have known, pup. This isn’t your fault.”

_ No more,  _ Harry remembered feeling. 

_ No more,  _ Tom felt, and moaned once again.

* * *

Crina Dimitriu arrived looking odd.

Nurmengard likely had a different staff change, or a shift in rules about who delegated during the Holidays. Crina seemed that she had not been at work, for she arrived wearing an exotic silk nightgown with a gorgeous outer robe with beetle shells sewn into the designs.

“Where is he?” She asked, voice quiet for once. Her hair wasn’t done, instead it hung loosely around her shoulders and the top of her breasts. She walked in large boots, thick fur trimmed with an accompanying large trenchcoat. It looked like caribou fur, but she shed it at the door instantly.

“This way,” Sirius directed, shying away from her touch at first. After a second, he let her wind her arm over his, gently guiding her through the house.

Tom looked horrible, still restrained but only on his arms. His legs hung free, curled up to his chest as fetal as he could get.

Tom opened his eyes slowly as they entered the kitchen. He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes dark and purpling. A blanket lay over him, stopping some of the chill.

“Oh Tom.” Crina said at the sight of him. She looked horribly exposed, just as Tom was. “How I have failed you.”

Tom had nothing to say to her, so he looked away and stay silent.

“We found him after midnight,” Sirius explained quietly. “Harry sensed something wrong, we came over and found him seizing in his bed.”

Crina nodded, her hair swishing around her neck. Harry spotted what looked like a dark stain on her collar- his first thought was that it was a Dark Mark; Crina shifted one arm and more fabric fell away to reveal a carefully tattooed beetle along her skin.

“Oh Tom.” Crina said, not filled with pity but instead a horrible sort of understanding. “Why have you chosen this?”

Tom’s emotions spiked so loud, that Harry twitched as the boy burst out a hacking sort of dark laughter.

It didn’t end, twisting upwards into hoarse hysteria as his eyes welled once more, legs kicking under the blanket uncoordinated. 

“You think I  _ chose this?”  _ Tom asked, sounding wild and feral. 

Crina’s eyes widened ever so slightly, but by then Tom was laughing and sobbing and speaking some sort of religious phrase with a keen cry of  _ “You brood of vipers, how can you who are evil say anything good? For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of. A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in him, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored in him!” _

Sirius looked at Crina apologetically, “he’s been...saying things like that a lot. I didn’t understand it all.”

Crina looked at Tom pained, as if his very image was one of agony to view.

“Tom,” Crina said gently with the care of one on thin ice. “What have you decided then? In that mind of yours-.”

“I have  _ decided,”  _ Tom laughed, hacking noises like a vulture over a new kill, “I am  _ done.” _

* * *

Harry looked up at breakfast, met the eyes of Doge- the man who had been watching Tom when he overdosed.

Harry met Doge’s eyes, saw his polite smile, and something inside him welled to life.

Harry’s hand tightened on his fork and knife, rage sputtered to life like on of Mr. Weasley’s salvaged muggle motors.

With a firm resolution Harry didn’t know, he promised, “I promise, I will kill you.” 

Doge balked, looking baffled as he said, “whatever for?”

Harry didn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part 1


End file.
